


Pride, Wolf and Rebellion

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Character Development, Cover Art, Deviates From Canon, Drama, Dreams, F/M, Humor, Love, Relationship(s), Religion, Romance, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Spoilers, Trespasser Spoilers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 09:36:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 55
Words: 121,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4999777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dread Wolf called to her, a song that reverberated in her soul.<br/>He was the Trickster, the Deceiver, the Lone Wolf.<br/>She was the Herald, the First, the Wolf Woman.<br/>She should stay away, stay vigilant. But Fen'Harel was the sign she was close to home and she was lost.</p><p>-Chapters 49-55 contain Trespasser spoilers- </p><p>Comments are welcome even though it's done. ～ ♡</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pt.1 - Solas: Lost

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once you're lost in twilight’s blue. You don't find your way, the way finds you. Tempt the fates, beware the smile. It hides all the teeth, my dear. What's behind them?  
> \- “Someone’s in the Wolf” Queens of the Stone Age

She kicked up wisps of snow as she struggled through white earth.

It was silver despite the dark. Her skin was ice, her bones were iron. The hike was demanding, trudging up hills and skidding down them in cruel flurries. She searched for survivors from Haven, searched for signs of life, for hope. All was fleeting before her eyes in a torrent of sound.

Wolves howled. Wind rushed. And she followed their call.

“ _Fen'Harel ma ghilana_ …”

Shadows moved ahead of her, above her, weeping their song to the moon. They led her. She followed, longing for the wolves and their night. She walked on, wishing for their secrets and their transcendent embrace.

And Fen’Harel. He led her. She followed. She sought him like she had when she’d returned to the heaving Dalish camp in bygone years, when she’d sought herself in the woods. She pursued him when she was close to home, when she was far away.

The emerald mark sustained her, but the magic was draining. As wolves’ song overwhelmed her sense of giving in and she twisted through billows of snow, she willed herself onward.

“ _Fen'Harel ma halam_ …”

Her mother in tears. Her mother wanting to tear her apart, restrained only by the Keeper. Dust and bone. It was the past…

The past was fire and death. Haven was gone.

“ _The Chosen of Andraste, a blessed hero to save us all…”_

It was only yesterday that she spoke to Solas, that she was full of hope and impish flirtation. What a fool she had been.

Together with Solas and the others, she endured the trail to the Conclave and closed the Breach. The victory was won. So it seemed.

With celebrations underway and revelry filling the air over Haven, the monster called the Elder One struck. He called himself Corypheus. The bastard took everything, destroyed everything, turned her world to ash and ruin. Memories blurred, screams turned to silence. So much death…

“ _They press against the Veil, weakening the barrier between our worlds…”_

She gained some scrap of victory when she launched a trebuchet and made the decision to bury Haven, contaminating the course of his assault. She survived Corypheus and his dragon and that was something, wasn’t it? She clung to it, clung to the expectation that’d sustained her with fire breathing down her neck.

Yet of all things, it was the lonesomeness that persevered. She cursed herself, pursuing the tears and the screams, trying to remember the rage as it built again and again. For all the time she spend trying to avoid the masses of her own clan, she’d grown accustomed to Haven and its stir. Seeing it now as only death was agony.

Who was left? Where were they? She rattled off names, taking role call in her head. Solas…

“ _Your indomitable focus is an enjoyable side benefit…_ ”

She couldn’t die out here in the damn cold.

She wanted to see his face again, had to hear his voice again. He saved her, stopped the mark from killing her. His touch calmed the jagged burn etched in her hand. But that same touch sparked fires in her heart.

He intoxicated her, his blue eyes oceans of knowledge and solitude. She never met anyone who travelled the Fade before, never met anyone who actually spoke to spirits. The idea was spellbinding. He was spellbinding.

“ _I will not believe it destroyed until I see the shattered fragments with my own eyes_ …”

She trudged on, perception fading in and out. Thoughts looming from the knowing to the absurd. The wolves speaking to her. Clouds turning to faces of people she knew. Air tasting of ale. Mouth filled with dust. Elfroot. Fire. More hideous fire.

The wind blew against her, harsh, angry. She stumbled, slipped but got up. She had to see him. Had to know she could…

“ _The Fade is not a place one goes but a state of nature, like the wind…”_

And then another, sturdier voice cracked the spell. “There she is,” it came.

“Thank the Maker,” came another voice. A familiar voice. Cassandra? Was it possible?

Others followed, voices first then figures. Shadows in the white, looming toward her. They collected around her, surrounding her with light and sound.

Cullen. It was Cullen, too, and he was picking her up. She clung to him with trembling limbs. She buried her head, ashamed and relieved. Ashamed to be so relieved in the face of so much horrifying loss. She drifted, frantic for sleep but more desperate for answers.

They approached a camp, a crude spot in the snow where many had gathered. They were faceless at first, crowding as she was drawn in.

She tried to smile as they gazed at her, as they took her in. Some of them were floating, she was sure of it.

And Cullen engraved a path with sturdy words, reaching a cot and placing her down on it. He pulled sheets over her, offering comfort and warmth. She looked at him, his features fading in and out. She wandered, falling at last into impatient slumber.

And there was more fire in her dreams and she called out to it, tried to stop it. She tried to stop the monster and the bastard Corypheus, throwing her hands up, throwing her best spells at it. She tried everything. Didn’t she?

And Haven was gone. And with it, everything had changed.

And voices punctured the night. They were familiar but distorted, stained by resentment and bitterness and revulsion. Spoiled by hurt and noise.

She had visions, peaceful visions of a healer visiting her. Of Cole, of a young man bringing her tea. Was it tea?

And more voices. Petrified shouting. Livid cursing. Horror and tragedy breaking things apart. It was all too fragile.

And then the soothing scent of elfroot. Of him. Her eyes flickered open and there he was. He was fading and glimmering all at once. She breathed in the relief, her heart finding exquisite peace. He was touching her. He was holding her hand, examining the mark as he had hundreds of times before.

Always with the damned mark. Who cares about the damned mark? It had brought so much ruin. She wanted to tell him to cut the cursed thing off.

And she wanted to hold him. She wanted to spring up out of bed. She wanted to spring her trap, taste him and drink him. She tried, even as her bones burned.

And Solas laid his hands on her, ensured her persistent rest.

She listened and dreamed.

* * *

 

“You now know the gravity of your decisions,” Keeper Lavellen said. “Even the innocent ones…”

She moved aside to disclose the vibrant crowd.

Arlathvhen, a gathering between clans held just once a decade.

Crowds gathered around clan leaders. Stories were woven of how Elgar'nan created the stars. Stories were woven of how Mythal created the moon.

So many smiles. So many voices. Faces marked by _vallaslin_ , heritage pulled from the grave. So much pride.

She wrapped her coat close, heartening herself with the wolf’s gift. She didn’t care for gatherings. She preferred quiet, solitude, even as the First.

She wove her way through the sea of strangers and spied the Dread Wolf’s figure on the outskirts. She crouched beside him, watching the festivities as he did. He was stone but he was familiar, comfortable.

She missed the howling. She missed her father. She was Fenlin’s daughter, wolf blood running through her veins, wolf pelt clasped around her shoulders. His gift.

The crowd bustled, preparing the stage to perform the fable of “The Betrayal.” Roles were given, volunteers eagerly raising their hands for the parts. Everything fell into order, except for the part of Fen’Harel. He was always causing trouble. They had no one to play the trickster.

Fen’Asha smiled.

“You there,” an elder called. He was pointing at her. “You play him.”

She sighed. She rolled her eyes. Of course. Fen’Asha and Fen’Harel. Inevitable.

They fixed the hide, head over her head, paws over her shoulders, back resting on her back, tail between her legs. She had her character, her orders. She played along.

She took the stage, acted out the evil of Fen’Harel.

She took the Creators to the side, locked them in the heavens.

The crowd booed. The perfect villain for the play.

She rallied the Forgotten Ones to the other side, locked them in the abyss.

The crowd hissed as she sat in the centre, embracing herself. Embracing Fen’Harel.

She was the Wolf Woman. It was her namesake.

The elder spoke, “And after the destruction of Arlathan, when the gods could no longer hear our prayers. Fen’Harel retreated to a far corner of the earth, giggling madly and hugging himself in glee.”

The Creators to her right, they wept. “We are lost.”

“Our gods saw him as a Brother,” said the elder.

The Forgotten Ones to her left, they wept. “We are lost.”

The elder was fading. “Now he alone is left in the world…”

She held herself. She was laughing.

The Creators to her right, they moaned, “We are lost,” they faded.

The Forgotten Ones to her left, they moaned, “We are lost,” they faded.

The crowd responded. “We are lost.”

Their cries echoed. “Lost.”

She held herself. She was crying. She was all alone. She was lost.

Her dreams broke open.

“Lost…”


	2. Pt.1 - Solas: Prayer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When darkness falls and surrounds you, when you fall down, when you're scared and you're lost. Be brave, I'm coming to hold you now. When all your strength has gone and you feel wrong, like your life has slipped away. Follow me. You can follow me.  
> \- “Follow Me” Muse

“We need a plan,” came Cassandra’s voice across desperate wind.

Fen’Asha blinked. Awake. Fen’Harel was…

“We know this,” came Cullen’s voice. “But we need a consensus or we have nothing.”

“We can’t get a consensus out of nowhere,” volleyed Cassandra.

Josephine was pleading. “We must use reason. Without the infrastructure…”

“Infrastructure?” Cullen was livid, pacing. “We have nothing.”

“We’re aware,” said Leliana.

“This is getting us nowhere,” Cassandra said.

“Well, we’re agreed on that much,” said Cullen.

Fen’Asha nearly rose when she felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Mother Giselle, calm and kind.

“They're arguing,” Fen’Asha grumbled, rubbing her temples.

“They have that luxury thanks to you,” said Mother Giselle. “The enemy could not follow and with time to doubt we turned to blame.”

Fen’Asha huffed.

“Rest,” said Mother Giselle.

“Do we know where Corypheus is?” Fen’Asha asked, fidgeting.

“We are not sure where _we_ are,” said Mother Giselle. “Which may be why, despite the number he still commands, there is no sign of him. That, or you are believed dead. I cannot claim to know the mind of that creature, only his effect on us.”

“I see…”

“There are no easy answers,” continued Mother Giselle. “We struggle because of what we saw. We saw our defender stand and fall and now we have seen her return. Your actions seem miraculous and our trials seem fated.”

“Well, shit,” said Fen’Asha. She sat up.

“That is certainly one way to look at it,” said Mother Giselle. “But the path ahead will require action, leadership.”

“I escaped the avalanche,” said Fen’Asha. “Barely. I’m not fit for anything apart from a long rest.”

“Of course,” said Mother Giselle. “The people know what they saw. Or what they needed to see. The Maker works in the moment and in how the moment is remembered.”

Solas said something similar about the Fade. There were memories and emotions. Nothing else. Facts were useless, reality was fragile. A waste. And the gods? The Maker? Andraste? Even the elven gods? They’d been quiet for centuries, if not longer. What good were they if they had nothing to say now with the whole damn world ablaze?

“I felt no Divine aid at the Conclave or Haven,” said Fen’Asha.

That was enough. She was the First, she was the Herald. But she was just an elf, just a mage. Her body ached to prove it. Her heart hurt. She was mortal, alone. She wore Mythal’s _vallaslin_ but the goddess was not guiding her. No god was guiding her.

The others looked at her. Cullen, Cassandra, Leliana, Josephine. They expected answers and she had nothing to offer but dreams of loss.

She exhaled supplication. A hushed voice in the dark, a pale call for help. Maybe the Dread Wolf…

And then, there was Mother Giselle. She was singing.

 _Shadows fall_  
_And hope has fled_  
_Steel your heart_  
_The dawn will come_  
_The night is long_  
_And the path is dark_  
_Look to the sky_  
_For one day soon  
_ _The dawn will come_

The song was a prayer.

Mother Giselle drew near, clasping her hands. Then, it happened. Others joined the chorus, offering their voices to the heavens. Offering cries for help, for hope. It rang from the rocks around, soaked into the snow, teased the stars. It was beautiful and terrifying at once.

Eyes and hearts turned to Fen’Asha, turned to the Herald, turned to the one who’d endured the bastard Corypheus and the one who’d survived the night. They knelt.

The song faded as suddenly as it had begun.

“Faith may have yet to find you, but it has found them," Mother Giselle said.

Fen’Asha blinked. This was still a dream, right?

And there was Solas, at her side. “A word?” he said. He urged her to follow, leaving footprints in thick snow.

She trailed after him, feeling the eyes of many.

Fen’Asha examined herself, unexpectedly mindful of her appearance. She was feral, more or less. She was the one who wandered the wilderness for weeks on end. She was used to the trees and the dirt, used to making her name with brambles in her hair, mud on her face, a kill over her shoulder.

And now she was towing at her light blonde hair, ensuring it was snug in its ponytail, playing with the loose strands, trying to frame her face. She silently cried out to Mythal in her abrupt attack of vanity.

She busied restless hands by instead toying with her necklace, the one she’d received from her father many years ago. The one with the wolf, shining silver in the moonlight. She caressed his snout as it turned to the heavens in eternal song, his fur etched in delicate lines, his tail draped around his feet.

She was grateful to the little wolf for calming her heart.

She followed Solas for some time. She softly thanked him for his interruption and the walk. She was glad he knew where he was going, glad to have someone to track. She watched him move against the bright full moon. She watched his stride, his upright posture, his bare feet in the snow, his tunic blown by the wind, his bald head and pointed ears.

He glanced back at her and she felt warm.

Solas finally reached his purpose. He lit a torch, jade veilfire flickering in the night.

She inhaled.

“It is interesting to see the humans so esteem one of our own,” he said. “But admiration fades, especially in light of what is to come.”

She agreed.

“There is something you should know about the orb Corypheus carries,” he said. He looked down.

“What is it?”

“It is ours,” he continued. “It is elven.”

She stared at the veilfire, prodding it for clarity.

“Corypheus used it to open the Breach,” Solas said. “Unlocking it must have caused the explosion that destroyed the Conclave. And yet he survived. We must find out how. And we must prepare for the reaction when they learn the orb is of our people.”

“What is the orb?” she said. “What does it do?”

“Such things were foci,” he said. “They were said to channel power from our gods. Some were dedicated to specific members of our pantheon. Corypheus came to possess it and he threatens the whole of Thedas with its power.”

It was word salad, yet it made a sick kind of sense. It rang like the truth, rang like the fates wanted it to. Fen’Asha wanted to run back to the forest. Any forest. She knew what was coming. “Even if we do stop Corypheus, they’ll still blame the elves,” she said.

“I suspect you are correct,” Solas said. “But we must be above suspicion to be seen as valued allies. Faith in you is shaping this moment, but it needs room to grow.”

She nodded. “There must be something,” she said, poking at the snow beneath her feet.

“There is,” he said. “There is a place that waits for a force to hold it. A place where the Inquisition can grow.”

“Where?”

“Scout to the North,” he said. “Be their guide. You can lead them. They won’t follow me. They will follow you.”

Redemption had come in some form or another. There was a place, there was opportunity.

She turned from her desires, wanting to hold him there near the veilfire. She wanted to savour it, savour him. She fingered her necklace, gripped it.

They began to walk back to where the people had gathered, where they waited for news, for direction. They walked to where they had lifted their song to the heavens, where they had knelt before Fen’Asha, where they had looked to her for courage.

The sun was glimmering around the crest of the mountains. Dawn had come, the promise of newness.

The advisers gathered and Fen’Asha shared what Solas told her. They celebrated, began preparing for the journey.

And Fen’Asha sat, wondering about her desperate prayer. The Dread Wolf…

The necklace. She pulled at it again, running a finger over it, hearing it howl, remembering its lessons, remembering a parable of her youth. She thought of how Fen’Harel came to save a clan from a great beast and instead let loose a slow arrow. The Elders perished, only the children survived as the arrow finally struck the monster. He saved them. But was it really salvation when it carried such cost?

What was the cost now? Had she been offered mercy by the Dread Wolf or…

She looked across the camp at Solas. He had the answer. He lit the veilfire.

But for the moment, it felt ordained by something else. She closed her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered, clutching the silver wolf.

She had been lost. She had been found.

It felt nice to be noticed, even for a moment. Even if it was Fen’Harel.

 


	3. Pt.1 - Solas: Grass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're a thousand miles from comfort. We have traveled land and sea. But as long as you are with me, there's no place I'd rather be. I would wait forever, exalted in the scene. As long as I am with you, my heart continues to beat.  
> \- “Rather Be” Clean Bandit

They trudged through the mountains in their massive number and there was new hope. And there was peace and quiet, time for reflection, conversation and song. Animals and birds shared open spaces.

Fen’Asha led the way and soon came to the spot Solas directed her to. A great watchtower loomed high, opportunity lifting into the blue out of a patchwork of stone.

“It should not be far now,” said Solas. “This will be a good place to rest.”

But Fen’Asha was eager, marking the watchtower as the first of many. She scaled its walls like she had scaled trees in the forest, clinging to crags in the brick and lifting herself up the side. At the top, she saw more watchtowers. And she saw what Solas sought, rising in the expanse under the ridge of yellow sun.

Solas looked up at her, eyes glistening.

“I think I see something in the distance,” she said. “We still have enough daylight to scout ahead.” She scooted down, using the ridges along the way as a guide.

Solas extended his hand and she took it. He hoisted her to the ground, her body pressed against his. He looked at her, carefully, questioningly.

She flushed, heart sparking heat to run through her veins.

“We’ll set up camp here,” came Cullen’s order.

The throng responded, noisily erecting various tents and snapping camp into place in the course of what seemed a single solitary second.

Solas and Fen’Asha were no longer alone to consider the warmth between them. It was as though they’d been transported to a crowded fair, complete with runny-nosed elven children and doddering, drunken dwarves plying their wares.

The heat faded, despite Fen’Asha’s best efforts. She leaned on him, pressed her ample breasts against him, pretended to steady herself and adjusted her boot.

But Solas turned away, joined the throng, joined the stupid fair with its stupid elven kids and stupid drunks. He said something stupid about helping with the planning.

Fen’Asha sighed, steadied herself for real against the stone of the damaged tower. Damn.

The next day passed in similar fashion and the group drew nearer to their destination. Conversation rattled and Fen’Asha eavesdropped, hearing Dorian and Vivienne dispute the finer points of Orlesian and Tevinter fashion while Sera mocked the colours and absurd hats.

Varric and Cole were carrying on. Cole was talking about stories. Or something…

The great Qunari Iron Bull was discussing the defences of the mountain pass, regaling Cassandra and the Grey Warden Blackwall about how the Chargers once secured a mountain pass just like this one and how they’d torn their enemies to shreds because they had higher ground.

Solas was close and Fen’Asha rejoiced in it. She swayed her hips just a little, taking a cue from how she turned the slobbering heads of some of the hunters. She knew she had certain resources with which to work, knew she could catch an eye or two if she so desired.

They spent countless hours together in service to the Inquisition, but this was different. She felt the sweat on her palms. Her mouth was dry, locked with the usual inability to communicate about anything other than hunting, the woods or Inquisition business. That damned “indomitable focus” was something Solas was proud of, but why did it have to plague her now?

She endeavoured all the more, defying the urge to riddle him with questions. She made small talk, pointing out a rock that looked like a rat or observing the colour of the leaves on a particularly supple tree.

Thankfully, he broke off into seriousness as he always did. “I can feel the people’s magic. It should be very close now.”

The mountain peak was near and so was the destination.

Soon, Fen’Asha was pulling herself up rocky precipices and gathering the strength to yank herself up yet another peak. The destination had been “near” all day.

She breathed heavily as she saw it, a magnificent fortress standing proudly on a mountain peak all its own. She felt it in her bones, something in the structure called to her. The magic Solas mentioned was churning inside.

He called it Skyhold. _“_ The whispers of old memories carry a thousand such names upon their breath. Still, it seems a promising title,” he explained.

She nodded, taking his hand down a particularly steep jump.

“Given your efforts against the Breach and our battle against a madman,” he continued. “I can only hope that the Inquisition's new stronghold lives up to its name.”

 

Fen’Asha lost count of the days as the Inquisition set up ground in the remarkable fortress. It was cavernous but useful and people began to stake out places for themselves, setting up cots and bedrolls in patches of grass and dirt.

There was a massive throne room and an endless array of other spaces, one of which was claimed as a “war room” for Cassandra, Josephine, Leliana, and Cullen to go over tactics. They pulled out a large map and set tiny figures over it, as though playing some sort of game. Perhaps it was all a game.

Fen’Asha busied herself finding quiet corners, ducking down every so often to what was fast becoming a rough-and-ready tavern. A lute player arrived, singing songs about people as they walked by and went about their business.

Sera set up shop in the top corner, overseeing part of the courtyard where Cassandra whacked away at targets and dummies. Iron Bull positioned himself in a chair inside the tavern, surrounding himself with Chargers and members of the Inquisition.

It didn’t take long for Fen’Asha to locate the books. Oh, the books. The first library she found was orgasmic and she could’ve spent years perusing the considerable volumes. When she discovered the second library, she needed a moment alone.

Solas created his own little space underneath the second library, giving her the perfect view of the bald elf from atop. Fen’Asha found herself noodling over volume after volume of something or other, day after day observing the object of her desire.

This day she found herself fingering a book on types of Fereldan grass meaninglessly as she looked down at him. He was shuffling papers, moving things around, pulling out paints, discovering supplies, doing things…

“Good book?” came a voice. Dorian drew near, peeking over her shoulder. “You’ve been on the same page for ten minutes. Fereldan grass is compelling, but what is it about crabgrass in particular that so interests you?”

She could’ve jumped out of her skin, which would’ve been preferable to what actually happened. The book slipped from her grasp, tumbling over the railing and all the way down to the floor of Solas’ space below. It hit with a kind of splat. A weird splat.

“Sorry,” she called.

“I’ve been here for a quarter of an hour thinking it was me you were longing to look upon,” sighed Dorian. “My poor ego cannot take any more of this.”

Fen’Asha tried to form words, but nothing came. She blushed.

“That’s a nice colour,” said Dorian.

She winced.

“You might want to preserve your dignity, though,” he said.

She looked at Solas through the corner of her eye and scowled. He was retrieving the book on grass, flipping through the pages, head cocking to one side. Thankfully, he was not looking up.

“Now you’re the colour of a nug,” said Dorian.

Fen’Asha’s eyes widened. Words were still failing her, but barely. She thought she could form syllables. Maybe.

“Don’t worry,” said Dorian. “My lips are sealed. I won’t tell anyone about your little fixation. Better I keep the pleasure to myself.”

She half-smiled, raising her eyebrows. Trying to give him a look. “Thanks,” she muttered. There it was. A word.

“Oh please,” said Dorian. “You’re a vision. He’d be a fool to…”

“Stop,” said Fen’Asha. “Don’t try and butter me up now.” A sentence. Success.

“No butter,” said Dorian. “Just the truth.”

She shook her head. Her briefly-granted ability to speak actual words had departed once more and she ventured another gaze toward Solas. His nose was still in the grass book.

She sighed, poked Dorian in the chest.

He wisely resisted responding, instead watching as she wobbled down the stairs.

“Your advisors are looking for you, Herald,” said Solas when she reached his level.

Fen’Asha touched the edge of her book. It was still in his hands. He was still reading about Fereldan grass.

“I’ll hold on to this until you return,” he said.

“Thanks?” she replied, grateful for the redirection. She had better get back to the business of Skyhold, better get back to being the damn Herald.

She discovered her advisors moments later at the entrance to Skyhold, where Cullen had set up a table and was barking orders. Cassandra waved her over to the group, looked at the people flooding into the massive structure.

“Skyhold is becoming a pilgrimage,” said Cassandra. “If word has reached these people, it will have reached the Elder One.” She began to walk to the upper courtyard, away from the group.

Fen’Asha followed. There were so many people.

“We have the walls and numbers to put up a fight here, but this is far beyond the war we expected,” Cassandra said. “But we now know what allowed you to stand against Corypheus, what drew him to you.”

“He came for this,” Fen’Asha said. She held up her hand, held up the mark. “And now it’s useless to him, so he wants me dead. Simple.”

“The Anchor has power, but it’s not why you’re still here,” Cassandra said. “Your decisions let us heal the sky. Your determination brought us out of Haven. You are that creature’s rival because of what you did. And we know it. All of us.”

They were by now moving toward the main hall, the yawning entrance to where the throne room was.

Leliana was there, holding a sword.

This was it. Fen’Asha was about to be executed in front of all these people. She’d outlived her usefulness. They found out about the orb. They knew everything, knew her sins, knew she was hazardous. Knew she was really into Fereldan grass.

“The Inquisition requires a leader,” Cassandra said.

Leliana held out the sword. She was presenting it to Fen’Asha. And the people below were staring up at her. They were gazing at her with wonder, reverence, awe.

Holy shit.

“You,” Cassandra said.

Holy shit.

“Are you sure this mountain air isn’t making you dizzy?” blurted Fen’Asha. Considering her trouble with words lately, she was happy with the remark.

Cassandra looked at her, eyebrows raised.

“They’ll accept an elf?” Fen’Asha clarified.

“They already have,” Cassandra said.

“Not as their leader,” said Fen’Asha. This wasn’t right. This was another dream.

“They’ll follow you. To them being an elf shows how special you are. How Andraste must favour you above all,” said Cassandra. She motioned to the sword, the sword Leliana was still holding. ”What it means to you. How you lead us. That is for you alone to determine.”

The orb is ours, it is elven. They’ll find out. They’ll use this fucking sword to saw her in half someday. She was no leader. By the Dread Wolf…

The sword shone. A slow arrow.

Before Fen’Asha knew what she was doing, she clutched the sword. She held it aloft. She’d seen others do this, read their stories, heard their legends. And here she was.

“I will lead us against Corypheus,” she heard herself say to the crowd below. “And I will be an ambassador. I am an elf standing for Thedas. The Inquisition is for all.”

“Wherever you lead us,” Cassandra said, stepping closer.

Lead us…

“Have our people been told?” called Cassandra to the throng.

“They have,” shouted Josephine. “And soon, the world.”

Had they been practicing this?

“Commander, will they follow?” Cassandra shouted.

“Inquisition, will you follow?” barked Cullen.

The crowded shouted various forms of affirmation.

They’d definitely been practicing this.

“Will you fight? Will we triumph?” shouted Cullen.

More affirmations, more yelling, more fist-pumping.

Fen’Asha reddened, like Solas had just put his hand on her ass.

“Your leader, your Herald, your Inquisitor,” Cullen called. He pointed his own sword in the air like they’d just won the war.

The crowd followed in sound and fury, gesturing and shouting madly. It was a wild scene, one flooding with unbridled enthusiasm and admiration and hope.

Fen’Asha raised the sword too. She didn’t want to be the only one standing there with a flaccid weapon, after all.

Maybe this was a blessing. Maybe it was an answer to prayer.

She whispered gratitude under her breath, uttered a name, pronounced her supplication. And she smiled, confidence swelling in her heart for once.

 


	4. Pt.1 - Solas: Haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a cavern of secrets. None of them are for you. Even if you wanted to keep them… Where would you find the moon?  
> \- “Warm Blood” Carly Rae Jepsen

Fen’Asha was grateful to be caught up in the business of the Inquisition.

Varric, much to Cassandra’s chagrin, contacted the Champion of Kirkwall. The man’s name was Hawke and he had information about the disappearance of the Grey Wardens. Varric had intended to make every effort to communicate with him and tapped into a network of information. A meeting was to be arranged between the Inquisitor and one of the Grey Wardens. The dwarf vouched for the Warden and said his name was Stroud.

Josephine was working on obtaining invitations to the Winter Palace, which would allow them to investigate an assassination attempt on Empress Celene while bolstering the all-important social status of the Inquisition. This was something the Ambassador took very seriously. It was also something Fen’Asha could not have cared less about.

And there was the perpetual threat of Corypheus and the increasing Red Templar army, plus there was red lyrium. And rifts continued to present themselves, splitting through the sky like buoyant green curtains to the Fade.

Fen’Asha knew that leading the Inquisition was an incredible responsibility and she knew that Thedas wanted her to be in a thousand places at once. If the magic existed to do so, she would’ve considered. As it was, certain decisions needed to be made and certain tasks needed to be prioritized.

Crestwood jumped to the top of the list. The region was north of Lake Calenhad in Western Fereldan and fell prey to a host of problems. A Fade rift was bringing the dead back to life. And there was a fucking dragon, which made Iron Bull nearly shit his shorts.

As comfortable as Skyhold was becoming for Fen’Asha, it was refreshing to see some action. She wasn’t sure her luxury was a good thing, what with raging enemies and the world counting on her. And she was eager to fight alongside Solas again, to feel the rush of blood as they faced down enemies, closed rifts, wandered through forests.

She sought him out in the location he’d carved out for himself at Skyhold, noting at once that his colourful mural now stretched its way across the wall. A work in progress.

“Greetings,” he said.

She nodded absently, admiring the wolves in the painting.

“I believe congratulations are in order, Inquisitor.”

She waved him away. “It all sounds so strange.”

“You’d best get used to it,” he said.

“I’m heading out to Crestwood in the morning,” she said “Will you be joining me?” Back to business.

“Of course,” Solas said. “I am at your disposal. I shall prepare my things.”

Fen’Asha lingered, balancing on her heels, trying to think of a subject, something to continue the interaction.

Solas looked at her.

“I’m very interested in what you’re reading,” she divulged, casting an eye down at his mass of books and papers. “I’d love to hear about what you’re studying.”

“You continue to surprise me,” he said. A grin threatened its way across his face, then withdrew. “I have a few moments now, but let us find somewhere more accommodating.”

* * *

 

It was Haven. Normal. Perfect. Quaint. It was strange… Something wasn’t right.

“Why are we here?” she said.

Solas was near. “It is familiar. It is important to you.”

Fen’Asha searched herself, words rising and falling like waves. Memories bubbling to the surface, then vanishing in smoke. “You said that already…”

Solas walked and she followed, padding into the church that held the birth of the Inquisition. They descended, down stone stairs, past candles, past flames of recollection, past iron.

Another flicker. Cassandra. Her face, her stare. Fen’Asha was captive. Her handcuffs lay innocuously on the floor of a cell.

“I sat beside you as you slept,” Solas said. “Studying the Anchor…”

He was watching her. “How long…” she began. Wavering.

“A magical mark of unknown origin tied to a unique Breach in the Veil?” he asked. “Longer than you might think.” He was regarding her.

She was regarding him.

“I ran every test I could imagine, searched the Fade. I found nothing. Cassandra suspected duplicity. She threatened to have me executed as an apostate if I didn’t produce results.” He folded his hands behind his back. Another prisoner, another captive.

Her handcuffs lay innocuously on the floor of a cell.

“Cassandra is like that with everyone,” Fen’Asha offered. Small comfort. A smile.

“Yes,” said Solas. He chuckled softly and walked away, back outside.

She followed, leaving her handcuffs behind.

“You were never going to wake up,” he said. “How could you, a mortal sent physically through the Fade?”

She looked into his eyes, clouds before rain. Sadness there. Why? Where were this captive’s chains?

“I was frustrated, frightened,” he said.

Something inside Fen’Asha moved. She wanted to follow its whim, wanted to hold him. Wanted to take away his chains, ease his sadness. She wanted him.

“The spirits I might have consulted had been driven away by the Breach,” he said. “Although I wished to help, I had no faith in Cassandra. Or she in me. I was…ready to flee.”

“The Breach threatened the whole world,” she heard herself say. “Where would you have gone?”

“Someplace far away,” he said. “Somewhere I might research a way to repair the Breach before its effects reached me.”

She wanted him.

“I never said it was a good plan,” he said.

It was luminous, as haunting as it had been when Fen’Asha had first laid eyes on it. Debris was suspended in it, shards of the world that remained. Fragments of the lives of others, unremarkable projections that had no damn relevance now because the world was fading. Customs, celebrations, songs, legends – all were suspended in midair like the junk in the Breach, wedged between gravity and void.

Solas reached out to it. “I told myself, one more attempt to seal the rifts,” he said. “I tried and failed. No ordinary magic would affect them. I watched the rifts expand and grow, resigned myself to flee. But then…”

Her memory sparkled.

She was meeting him again, fighting alongside him, fresh from Cassandra’s chains. She saw him, his magic crackling. Electric. And he had taken her hand, turned her wrist, held her hand and its gaping emerald spur up to the rift in the sky. It closed, magic forcing through her. She had pulled away then, confused.

She had pulled away then.

“It seems you hold the key to our salvation,” he said then. He repeated those words, facing her in Haven again. “You sealed it with a gesture. And right then, I felt the whole world change.”

Fen’Asha’s heart was pounding. “Felt the whole world change?”

“A figure of speech,” he said.

“I’m aware,” she said. She moved closer.

“You have changed… everything.”

“How?” she asked.

“I cannot explain,” Solas said. “But there is something distinctive, something different…”

“Ah,” she said, fidgeting.

“I am not sure it is your effort alone that produces such an effect,” he said. “Perhaps it is something deeper, more elemental.”

She nodded, deflated, wanted to pull away.

“You are very special. You have not only survived what would destroy ordinary men, you have thrived. And it is not merely the mark that defines you,” said Solas. “It is…more.” He turned from her.

She sighed. She had pulled away then. She would not pull away now.

He was looking away.

She would not pull away now. In fact…

He was looking away.

She moved thoughtlessly, like magic swelling through night sky from an unbridled staff. Like blood rushing through veins. She pulled at him, turning his face to hers. Met him.

Kissed him.

For all the forcefulness of her movement, the kiss was affectionate. Soft. Tender.

She stepped back, could’ve fallen through the ground. She was bare. Naked. Exposed. She wanted to flee as he had wanted to, race from the world and its concerns. She pulled away.

He pulled her back, bringing her in from the edge once more. He kissed her.

She allowed him, opening her lips.

His tongue entered, deliberately and delicately encircling hers. Touching. The smell, the taste. He plunged her backward.

She clutched him, feeling the length of his form. She felt her body against his, her curves melting against him, her warmth and his. His hand on her back, her hands grasping him.

The kiss broke into stars.

He shook his head. Kissed her once more, deftly and briefly.

She blinked at him, budding fondness blending with sheer yearning.

“We shouldn’t,” he said. “It isn’t right. Not even here.” He stepped back.

“What do you mean ‘even here’?”

“Where did you think we were?” He was smiling.

It was Haven. Normal. Perfect. Quaint. It was strange…

A grave.

“This isn’t real,” she said.

“That is a matter of debate,” Solas said. He was somewhere else. “Something best discussed after you wake up.”

Wake up.

 


	5. Pt.1 - Solas: Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fragile voice I hear that trembles and deceives. The deep blue oceans in your eyes. Desire grows inside. Veils of mist covered kisses. Swear by the moon, I want you.  
> \- “By the Moon” Anggun

She sprang awake.

Fen’Asha was back on solid ground. Back in Skyhold, in her chambers. The mountain breeze drifted through her open balcony doors. The moon was gleaming, seemingly staring down at her. Enormous.

She touched her lips. The kiss. Haven. It had been real, hadn’t it? Or was this another sick joke, another depravity set upon her by dreams? She felt warmth, sweat clinging to her form. That seemed real enough and she settled herself, touching feet to cold floor and making her way to the balcony.

What happened?

She remembered seeking out Solas, asking him to join her in Crestwood. Being coy. She winced at the thought of herself playing such philandering games with such a refined man. She hadn’t flirted in ages. She was sure that was apparent through her bumbling. “I’m very interested in what you’re reading,” she had said.

But they shared a drink and he took her to Haven, right?

Maybe something else happened. She remembered his lips, soft and gentle. She remembered her handcuffs. A captive. Two captives.

“Haven is familiar,” Solas said. Voice drifting. “It will always be important to you.”

It was important to her. It would always be important to her.

Fen’Asha exhaled. He was there. It was real. As real as the looming moon.

She decided she needed to see him again, to confirm, to find answers.

She padded down the tower stairs, into the main hall, past some guards. They stared as she walked away, finding the fireplace at the entrance to the hall and moving past to the rotunda into the area Solas claimed as his own. The one with the mural, the books, the papers.

“Sleep well?” came his voice. He was there, reading.

“I had a strange dream,” she said. “But there was a happy ending.”

“I apologize,” he said. “The kiss was impulsive and ill-considered. I should not have encouraged it.”

He did take her to Haven. Something had happened. Her memory of his lips was not some extravagant fiction spun by sleep.

“So your tongue was just following your urges?”

“I suppose,” he said. He was finally looking up from his book.

“And you wish to repress those urges?” She managed a smile.

His lips were pressed thin.

“Are the rules different in the Fade?” She raised her eyebrows again, turned her head.

“Things have always been…” he looked down. “Better. Things come easier to me in the Fade.”

“I see,” she said.

“I am not certain this is the best idea,” he said. His eyes drifted back to the book. “It could lead to trouble.”

“Trouble?” She knew he was right, at least in theory. She was the Inquisitor. A Dalish elf. She was younger. He was older. Wasn’t he? Maybe he was into brunettes. Non-elves. Maybe he was…

He was reading.

“I’m willing to take that chance,” she said. “If you are…”

“I…” he said. He looked up. “If I could have some time to ponder it. There are considerations.”

His jawbone necklace shone in the candle light.

“Take all the time you need,” she said.

He looked at her. Looked at her robe, its ethereal material snug to still-moist skin. The curves underneath. “I am not often thrown by things that happen in dreams,” he said. “But I am reasonably sure we are both awake now. If you wish to discuss anything, I would enjoy talking.”

She pulled at her robe and attempted to lean against the edge of his table. “I have to admit, the kiss wasn’t the only incredible thing about the dream.” Her soft blonde hair drifted over her shoulders, pale as the moon.

“Yes?”

“I had no idea you could dream so vividly,” she said. “Do you regularly talk to people in dreams?”

“No,” he said. “That was…unique. Consider that just one more rule you have broken. I had no idea the Anchor would allow you to dream with such focus. It is truly remarkable.”

“One more rule I’ve broken?”

“You have broken rules of man and nature,” he said. “And you will no doubt break more before you are finished. Visiting me in the Fade, even as a mage…that should not have come so easily.”

“The Anchor allowed it?”

“I suspect there is more to it than that,” he said.

 “I suppose my being peculiar has finally paid off,” she said.

“The unusual do tend to find themselves at the center of major world events,” he said.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, considering present company,” she said.

He smiled.

The kiss. She wanted…

“I notice you have an interest in Fereldan horticulture,” he said. He was pointing at the pile of books on his table.

She looked down, snapped back out of another moment. Her book sat at the top of a pile, the one she’d dropped an eternity ago. The one about Fereldan grass. She picked it up.

“I find the subject most interesting,” he said. Eyes glimmering.

“Yes,” she said. “The Alamarri didn’t call it the fertile valley for nothing.” She winced.

“That is…fascinating.”

“Yes, well.” She pulled at her robe again, turned the book around in her other hand. Wanted to disappear.

He was watching her.

“Well,” she said. “Goodnight, Solas. Busy day tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Inquisitor.”

Somehow, she’d made her way back to her chambers and to the moon. Fen’Asha sat at her desk, staring blankly at her book. “The Alamarri didn’t call it the fertile valley for nothing.”

She flipped through the tome absently. Trouble. Solas. She had broken the rules, again. She was a rule-breaker. She smiled to herself and spotted her hand mirror, the moon caressing its edges in the night.

Humans were always looking into mirrors, always adjusting themselves. Always pulling their hair into elaborate contraptions, wearing paint on their faces. Looking at their reflections, checking themselves again. It seemed an exhausting ordeal.

Her reflection was different, wasn’t it? Her _vallaslin_ , sacred and a gift from her Keeper, seemed to glow. Fen’Asha looked like her mother. Her light hair, green eyes. That elven nose.

But Fen’Asha also looked like her father. She had his full mouth and his round cheeks.

Her parents. What would mother say about Solas, about the confusion, about the dreams. She saw her, distantly. In another time…

* * *

 

“How did you know you loved papa?” Fen’Asha was saying.

She was supposed to be preparing for the _vallaslin_ , to receive the marking, to endure the pain. To not cry out. She meditated on Mythal, her chosen god. She was to be ready, silent.

“I knew it when I chose to know it,” said her mother.

“What do you mean?”

“It is complicated, _Da’len_.”

“I will be a woman soon,” said Fen’Asha. She touched her face, touched where the lines of the _vallaslin_ would be.

“If you endure.”

“I will,” said Fen’Asha.

“Well,” said her mother, drawing near. She tucked Fen’Asha’s hair in place. “Desire is one thing. It will only go so far. Love, true love, faces obstacles great and small. Loving someone is a gift. You do not love for yourself but for the one you love. You choose to give your love, choose to offer that gift. You can be unselfish, kind, forgiving and enduring. To have your love returned, that is…”

“That is what you and papa have?” asked Fen’Asha.

Her mother nodded. She was beautiful in the light.

* * *

 

The moon loomed still.

Fen’Asha fought back impulses of guilt and shame. She looked through the balcony doors, away from her mirror. The memory had tattered her, torn open what she’d struggled to bury.

If it hadn’t been for her, her mother would still have that love. Her father would be alive.

Skyhold closed in on her. It was too large and too small, all at once. It was too much. She was too much. Leliana should’ve put her to the sword. That was the fate she deserved for her crimes.

Fen’Asha sprang from her room, rushed down the stairs. Moved past the guards again.

They greeted her, called her Inquisitor.

It was all wrong.

 “You now know the gravity of your decisions… Even the innocent ones.” She had comforted Fen’Asha with those words. “All Keepers must tread carefully.”

Had Keeper Lavellen been right? Had the gods agreed?

She stopped at the rotunda door. Why? She didn’t want to intrude on him again. She turned, left the main hall, followed the sounds and smells.

The tavern was alive.

She entered and found it bustling with remnants of the Inquisition here and there. Some were playing Wicked Grace, others were chatting, some were singing, some were snoozing. An elderly man in an unfastened gown was spinning around and around in a circle, his genitals making random appearances as a dwarf clapped and cheered nearby.

The man in his robe made Fen’Asha feel more comfortable in hers, although she double-checked to ensure she wasn’t illuminating the world to the extent that he was.

Fen’Asha ordered a drink and tasted its bitterness.

She thought of mother and father again. The clan, their resentment stinging. They rejected her, left her cold, wandering. She was stupid, the one who could not learn. The one whose decisions, “even the innocent ones,” led to so much trouble.

She drank again. Bitterness caving away.

The mission to spy on the Conclave was her big break, her chance to run. Possibly even prove her worth.

She drank again.

But there was still loss, now even more of it. Haven. Her parents, friends. Varnehn… The Keeper was a world away.

Solas remained, but even he knew she was trouble. He noted the danger, kept his distance. Kissed her in the Fade, where such things came easily to him.

But she couldn’t deny how he made her feel, dreams be damned. She wanted him. What if he didn’t want her?

She drank.

Love was a gift. It faces obstacles great and small. Desire was one thing. Love was another.

She drank, swirling the remnants of the ale in her glass. Round and round, round as the moon. Her thoughts went round with it, coating the edges with considerations and possibilities.

Mother had found it with papa. They had exchanged gifts, faced hardships together.

What about Solas? Could she have hope? Be something more than a mistake?

She could love him, give him her gift. Trouble be damned.


	6. Pt.1 - Solas: Those

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's a perfect stranger, like a cross of himself and a fox. He's a feeling arranger and a changer of the ways he talks. He's the unforeseen danger. The keeper of the key to the locks. Know when you see him, nothing can free him. Step aside, open wide. It's the loner.  
> \- “Loner” Neil Young

The carriage rattled to Crestwood, knocking its wooden wheels into nearly every groove and hole in the coarse trail on the way north of Lake Calenhad.

Fen’Asha decided to sit as far as possible from Solas. She needed to focus. She knew she had trouble to confront, in more ways than one, and she knew she needed every ounce of her intellectual capacity. At the very least, she needed to be sharp enough to fool enough people into believing that she was sharp enough. It was a dreadful web.

Last night had been rough and sleep was fleeting. She did all she could to contain herself, contain the passions that were blistering to the surface. She had things to consider, business to attend to, books to read, excuses to make, Solas to kiss…

The consideration made her shudder and she clutched a book that declared to explore the mesmerizing antiquity of Caer Bronach, with a “special section underscoring the role of the stand taken by Ser Crestwood.” The volume was supposed to be fascinating. It wasn’t.

By the second day, the silence in the carriage was deafening.

Sera groaned, coughed, even belched – anything to break the agonizing stillness.

“Something wrong?” asked Fen’Asha.

“Of course not,” Sera said.

Fen’Asha returned to her book. Ser Crestwood was opening the gates, signaling a truce with a flag, challenging all the Orlesians to a duel. It was supposed to be exhilarating.

Sera coughed, counted her fingers, fidgeted, exhaled noisily.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Fen’Asha closed her book.

“Me? Perfectly fine. Not bored to fucking tears or anything.”

“Well,” Fen’Asha said. “You could…” She looked around, hoping for a flash of inspiration.

“Yes, yes,” Sera said, leaning forward. “You could…”

“You could draw something?”

“Like what? Varric’s butt? Done that.”

Fen’Asha looked around again, catching Varric’s wandering eyes.

“I could draw you,” said Sera. “Yeah, I could draw you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.” Sera was smirking.

“Why me?”

“You got those,” Sera said, pointing at Fen’Asha’s chest.

“These?”

“Those.”

Varric’s wandering eyes blinked quickly and Cassandra shifted in her seat.

Fen’Asha chuckled, the road’s seedy muse taking her. She pulled herself up, the book slipping to the floor of the carriage. “I guess I could be your subject.”

Sera fiddled for her supplies. “Great.”

Fen’Asha swung her legs over Varric’s lap, let her blonde tresses loose and tossed them back, unbuttoned her top, pushed _those_ out.

“Oh, that’s bloody fantastic,” Sera said. She chortled noisily, putting lead to vellum.

Varric’s wandering eyes locked in on Fen’Asha’s breasts. “That’s…”

“Maybe lean forward a little,” said Sera.

Fen’Asha did as she was told, pushing her breasts closer to Varric’s large cranium.

“I…” said the dwarf.

“More,” said Sera.

Soon, Varric’s head was all but pressed between Fen’Asha’s plump breasts and the temperature in the carriage had risen considerably.

“That’s the way,” said Sera, drawing with a ridiculous grin locked on her face.

Varric mumbled something.

“You’re awful,” said Cassandra, face red, eyes glimmering. “Terrible. Just awful.”

“That is an incredible likeness,” said Iron Bull, peeking at Sera’s sketch.

Cassandra inched forward, looking both ways before deigning to take a look at what the elf was working on. “That’s scandalous,” she said. “She’s the Inquisitor.”

Solas, who had remained stoic the entire trip, was craning his neck for a peek.

“Okay, okay,” said Varric, lifting his head out of Fen’Asha’s valley. “I’m getting stiff.”

“I bet you are,” roared Iron Bull and the entire carriage erupted in therapeutic laughter.

“Not like that,” said Varric, but nobody heard him.

The carriage rolled to its destination, giving Varric the opportunity to stretch his legs and allowing the rest of the group to check out Sera’s handiwork.

Even Scout Harding, fresh from the field, had a look. “Well,” she said. “That’s impressive.”

Sera tittered.

“You better put that away,” said Harding. “It’s starting to rain.”

 

By the time they arrived at camp, rain was tumbling down in blubbery sheets. Harding briefed Fen’Asha along the way, tramping through puddles and mud.

The first order of business appeared to be the big rift in the lake. Harding pointed to the undead trudging out of the water, watched them stagger and stumble around like drunken children.

In order to take on the rift, the Inquisition would need to drain the lake. This was no easy task and it involved a tentative conversation with Mayor Gregory Dedrick. He was hiding something, Fen’Asha was sure of it. After discussing the matter of the rift with Dedrick, he coughed up the keys to the controls of the dam.

Unfortunately, the controls required the Inquisition to clear out the Highwaymen at Caer Bronach. Fen’Asha perked up at this news, noting how she’d been trying to read about the place in her book.

The rain did all it could to saturate the efforts of the Inquisition. Skirmish after skirmish dotted the landscape to Caer Bronach and eventually the Highwaymen fell to blade and staff. With the dam opened and the lake drained, the Inquisition roamed the remnants of old Crestwood. 

Their feet slopped through the mire as spirits and undead rambled around. Sera yelped, jumped, bumped into Fen’Asha as spirits flittered by.

The Inquisition found what it were after at the opening of a cavern. Fen’Asha’s Anchor crackled in response, following the mark to the rift below.

The cave was shadowy and soggy, speckled with glossy rocks that made movement difficult. Sera was disturbed by evidence of people having drowned in the cave. It seemed the mayor had gathered them there for that purpose during the Blight.

“We’ll deal with him after. First the rift,” Fen’Asha said.

“Fucking arrow right between the fucking eyes is what he’ll get,” Sera fumed.

Fen’Asha sighed as she navigated the course, trying not to mind the filth and grime of the day’s travels. Her clothing clung to her, wet with blood and remains. Mud caked her face, lined her cheeks.

They descended far down into the muggy cave, further then Fen’Asha could fathom. Eventually the natural rock gave way to dwarven architecture. The ruins of the hall were still standing strong. Red windows lined the walls offering an odd blood crimson light.

They slogged on carefully through the dirty water.

“We’ve got ale back at camp,” said Iron Bull. “That’s something.”

“We’re lost, aren’t we?” said Sera. “We’re lost. I’ve been fucking lost before and I know we’re lost.”

“We’re not lost,” said Fen’Asha. She was sure of it, her keen sense of direction edging her onward.

“She is correct. The Veil is thin here,” said Solas.

“The Veil is shit here,” said Sera.

Fen’Asha rounded a corner and held up her hand. “There,” she said. A dim green glow energized the rim of another dank, dark, interminable passageway.

Soon, they found themselves facing the rift. It materialized above, like the others had done. The sound was horrific, sizzling and gasping as though the universe was splitting in half.

Underneath the emerald slash in the air was a Pride Demon, a broad-shouldered beast with purple flesh and curling tendrils. Smaller demons darted this way and that, intoxicated by the energy and raring to attack.

“Kill the smaller ones first,” said Fen’Asha. “Then we’ll take down that big bastard.”

The crew voiced their agreement and charged into the fray, Fen’Asha leading the way. The lesser demons proved easy to dispatch, with showers of fire, ice and smoke glazing the area.

But the Pride Demon grew, whipping cables of purple lightning.

Fen’Asha knew she had to dislocate the Fade rift in order to gain the upper hand. She focused, lifting her hand like she had countless times before. Feeling the stretching, pulling. Watching the green flashes. Hypnotized by the heat. As the rift exploded stunning the demon, its whip splayed pitifully. The snap of electricity rushed above her head, hammering the cavern ceiling. 

She heard Sera shout when the ceiling buckled, crumbling in sheets of rock. All was fire as the air seemed to explode, ash and debris bursting from every direction. The world was caving in.

This was it.

Fen’Asha swore she saw sky, swore she sensed the moon. She wanted to scream, frozen to fate. She wanted to call out to the Dread Wolf for salvation. She wanted to…

Somehow she was heaved out of the way of tumbling rock, out of the path of quickening sky. She closed her eyes, feeling pressure and weight on top of her. Maybe she hadn’t made it. Maybe she was somewhere else.

“Are you alright?” came a voice. Familiar, calm.

Fen’Asha coughed herself back to the darkness, back to feeling that weight on top of her.

It was Solas.

“I’m fine,” she managed. Was she?

Solas pulled himself off and held out a hand, pulling her to her feet in the dimness.

“Boss,” came a roar from somewhere.

“We’re fine,” Solas shouted back.

“I got the fucking demon,” cried the voice. It belonged to Iron Bull.

“Good,” said Solas.

“I don’t know about the rift,” barked Iron Bull.

“I think I got the rift,” groaned Fen’Asha. Her head hurt, her eyes hurt, her fingernails hurt. She lifted her arm gingerly to the soft green glow hovering overhead. The energy pulsed through her, familiar and strangely heartening, until she slammed it shut.

“I can’t get through,” yelled another voice. Sera.

It became apparent that Solas and Fen’Asha were separated from the rest of the Inquisition and seemingly the rest of the world by a wall of rock, dirt and sludge. The demon had torn the cave apart.

“Shit,” bellowed Iron Bull.

Solas examined his surroundings, amidst the faint glow of the anchor.

“It’s solid,” said Iron Bull.

“I think I can get us out,” said Solas, loud enough for Iron Bull to hear.

“Yeah?”

“Meet us back at the camp,” Solas said. Somehow his voice carried through the darkened cavern.

There was a pause.

“Bull?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you remember the way back?” Solas cocked his head to the side, waiting.

“Yeah,” shouted Iron Bull.

“We will find you there.”

“Okay,” said Iron Bull.

“You hold the weird fire shit,” Sera said.

Iron Bull’s response receded into silence. 

“ _Garas_ ,” Solas said coming close, near enough to cause her heart to flutter. Fen’Asha used the Anchor to illuminate the ground beneath their feet.

They were lost, but she could touch him, fumbling through the darkness. She could smell him. His unique musk mixed with elfroot in a heavenly fashion. She tried not to be too obvious, masked her inhalation as a deep sigh as they stumbled through the dark. 

Solas led them to a wall, examining the cracks and receding areas. He looked into the blackness, catching his eye on a pathway.

“This is the way,” Solas said. “Do you smell the air?”

They neared a crack and scanned its length with the green light. Solas touched the lines.

“I don’t think we can fit through that,” said Fen’Asha.

Solas smiled, lips curling up in the green glow. “Stand back.”

It was always impressive to watch him use his magic. He pulled back with his free hand and pushed it frontward, scrunches of energy swelling through the crack and forcing it further and further open until there was a yawning hole in the rock wall.

Fen’Asha and Solas stepped through, finding themselves in an expansive corridor.

“I can’t imagine how the dwarves did this,” Fen’Asha said in awe of the imposing arches reaching high above.

“The _durgen’len_ are but a shadow of themselves, _lethallan_ ,” said Solas. He found a source for veilfire and lit it, removing him from her side.

She felt cold. “You’ve explored dwarven ruins before?”

“I once found an ancient dwarven thaig no longer sheltered by the Stone,” he said stepping into the expanse. “An earthquake had exposed it to all daylight. A thousand dwarven corpses lay, victims of a darkspawn horde. Their last stand was marked by one great ring of armor. In the middle, one small body, clutching tightly to a small stuffed toy.”

She followed, prayed Fen’Harel would see them through this mess.

They continued in silence, Fen’Asha imagining how the great hallways once teemed with life. She wondered about the hands that crafted the doorways, wondered about the feet that crept the floors.

She looked at Solas, watching him move. He had seen so much. She wondered about his adventures in the Fade, how he travelled worlds beyond, how he knew of these halls and of the dwarves. She wanted to go with him, live and breathe in the Fade.

Her thoughts swam.

“You must be weary, _lethallan_ ,” Solas said.

Fen’Asha was drawn back to the present, away from her Fade memories and her thoughts of kissing and touching and rubbing and…

He walked a few steps further, approached a door. “I think we can rest here,” he said as he pressed the door open.


	7. Pt.1 - Solas: Soap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love that's given freely, it doesn't die, it only changes. And love that's taken easy, it has to hide in these exchanges.  
> \- “Talking With Wolves” Glen Hansard

The room held a table and some small chairs, plus a fireplace Solas took to immediately. Within seconds, there was a slight but warm glow taking to the expanse of the space. Solas examined his surroundings and placed his pack on the table, eyeing a small stone bed surrounded by storage chests and shelving.

The corner of the space was walled off with a sheer curtain that half-concealed a stone bath illuminated by the strange red light emanating from the wall.

“I wonder if it still works,” said Fen’Asha. She touched her face, noting the thick earth crusted to her skin. She turned the nearby knobs, hoping for signs of life beyond the burbling noises springing from deep within the adjoining walls. After a few moments, murky water fell from the corroded spigot and dumped its smeared solution into the tub. She frowned.

Soon, luckily, water ran pure and cool. She turned another handle, fiddled with the controls. The water warmed, the last of the mud wandering down the trench. She plugged it and watched the bathtub fill.

“We can take a bath,” she said, dreamily. We?

“After you, Inquisitor,” said Solas. He was near the table, rifling through his things.

She examined her surroundings and confirmed her fears: there was nowhere to uncloak. The water was filling the tub, inviting her. She bit her lip, slipped off her clothing, upright for a moment in her undergarments and perceiving Solas from the corner of her eye. He wasn’t looking. He was poking the fire.

She slid the last of her undergarments over her head and dunked a toe in the water. It was mild and she knelt, first ducking the rest of her leg before gliding all the way into the tub. She felt the stone under her bare hindquarters, sitting still and then pooling water in her hands to finally cleanse the filth from her face.

“Would you like some soap?” asked Solas.

Fen’Asha leapt as she spotted his hand nudging around the corner of the curtain with a small bar presented for her convenience. She offered her thanks and sniffed its tender scent, gathering the sense of elfroot blossoms and touching it to her skin. She thought of Solas as she worked his soap into a lather, rubbed his soap over her skin, flickering thoughts of his hands, letting the bubbles cleanse her from the day’s drudgery. 

Job done, she pulled the plug and stood. Towels. There were no towels. She flushed, the cool of the room blending with her embarrassment and producing a rush of resourcefulness. She shook her limbs, watching water turn to drops and tumble into the draining tub. She twisted her hair, pressing the water out of each strand.

“Feeling better?” asked Solas. He wasn’t watching, but the question implied attentiveness.

Fen’Asha nodded and stood, her form silhouetted against the curtain. Sure of his glance, warm from his eyes. She slithered into her smallclothes, suddenly and acutely aware of how everything felt. She inhaled, tried to still her hasty pulse. She stepped out of the bath.

Pulling her pants on turned out to be quite a struggle. They were snug over her still-damp skin and she wiggled into them, the silver wolf of her necklace springing from one peak to another and back again.

Solas’ gaze turned away, a slight grin curling across his lips.

Fen’Asha huffed and buttoned her pants at last, pleased with the eventual success.

“Satisfied?” asked Solas.

“Very.”

“Surely you must be famished after such an ordeal,” he said.

Fen’Asha saw that he’d pulled food and drink from his pack and presented it on the stone table, a small but starry-eyed meal for two. With the fire gently crackling and the perfume of elfroot blossoms still lingering, it felt cozy. It felt like a home.

And they ate and she wondered about how life could be, how things were beyond the confines of the Inquisition.

Solas talked more of the Fade, of his adventures and a memory of a dwarf that saw the sun for the first time. He met a spirit cursed with emotion long overlooked, a spirit without a name. And slight house in the Korcari Wilds, one that weathered the rigours of time and held the Chasind at bay under fright of Her return. 

After the meal, Solas took it upon himself to seek refreshment in the tub.

And she took it upon herself to control herself, but it was a hopeless endeavor. She cleared the table, casting her eyes past the drape and to his elegant form as he worked the soap around his body. Fen’Asha’s heart pounded. She was chasing herself through the woodland again, eyes of her necklace coy in the darkness.

Desire rose and fell like breakers, elusive at first but building to thunder. She licked her lips, moisture merging lower. She needed water, finished what remained in his canteen.

A familiar tune took her and she hummed, amiably clinging to its diversion as she watched the fire dance. She sang, letting her voice fill the small expanse.

 _Irassal ma ghilas_  
_Ma garas mir renan_  
_Ara ma’athlan vhenas_  
_Ara ma’athlan vhenas_

“I have not heard that song in a long time,” said Solas. He was standing next to her, fully dressed and perfectly composed. Of course he was.

“My Mother used to sing it to me,” she shrugged.

“You do not often speak if your clan,” he said.

“No, I…” she said.

“You must be homesick,” he said, packing his supplies.

She sighed, removing herself from the fire and its considerations. “I have no home.”

He cocked his head, unspoken questions in his eyes.

“My clan never really connected to any one place,” she said. “At least I never did… I’m a loner.”

“I understand,” said Solas. He lit the veil fire. He was beautiful in the light.

 

Solas and Fen’Asha were greeted warmly upon their return. Breakfast was stewing at the fire, but she wanted a change of clothes.

Dorian was waiting at her tent as she emerged. “So you and Solas, huh?” he said.

She nodded.

“Alone?”

She nodded, raising an eyebrow.

“Alone all night?”

“Yes,” she said. “And?”

“And clean, too.” He stroked his moustache. “Cleaner than, say, Iron Bull or Sera.”

“And?”

“Usually, that would be a rather unexceptional statement given the rather dubious hygiene of the subjects in question,” he said. “But under the circumstances…”

“There was a bath,” said Fen’Asha. She wanted to push past Dorian but imagined that would make her look more conspicuous.

“Oh, was there?”

“Yes,” she said. “In an apartment. That we found. We found an apartment.”

“You found an apartment?”

“Yes?”

“And you took a bath? In an apartment? That you found?”

“Yes.”

“Well, well,” said Dorian. “Isn’t that domestic of you?”

“Nothing happened, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“No, of course not. You only found an apartment and took a bath. With Solas.” He tittered to himself, hopelessly delighted by his efforts.

“Stop it,” she batted him away, unable to restrain the blush.

“But you’re so charming when you’re uncomfortable,” he said. “Such a cute little nug.”

“Who’s a nug?” came a sharp voice. It was Sera and she was noisily crunching on an apple.

“Nobody’s a nug,” said Fen’Asha. She shifted her feet, desperately wanting to dive past Dorian’s obstruction and toward the hospitable security of breakfast.

Sera joined the blockade. “Are you blushing?”

“No,” said Fen’Asha, despite the increasing warmth flooding her cheeks.

“You and Dorian, eh?” asked Sera between boisterous mouthfuls of apple.

“No,” said Fen’Asha. “There is no me and Dorian.”

“That’s Dorian and I, Inquisitor,” said Dorian. “Linguistic inaccuracies notwithstanding, I am aggrieved.”

Sera chuckled, bits of apple tumbling from the corner of her mouth.

“Please,” Fen’Asha pushed passed, heading toward the campfire.

“Do you at least find me attractive?” Dorian followed, twirling the corner of his moustache.

“Yes. I think you’re very attractive.”

Sera nearly gagged on what was left of her apple.

“What’s going on?” came another voice. It was Varric, sitting at the campfire.

“The Inquisitor just declared her undying love for me,” said Dorian. He was fanning himself.

“The Inquisitor has a big, big ass-over-tits crush on Dorian,” Sera teased.

“I do not,” Fen’Asha insisted, feeling quite red. She sat with the dwarf.

“Speaking of tits…” Sera said.

“Oh, for the love of…”

“Boobs?” Dorian asked, sitting next to Fen’Asha.

“Boobs.” Sera fished out her drawing.

“You keep that on you?” Fen’Asha squeaked.

Sera crunched into her apple.

Dorian’s eyes widened. “Oh, goodness…”

“I still don’t think my head is that big,” Varric grumbled.

Fen’Asha sighed.

“Will Solas be able to tell me if this drawing is…anatomically correct?” Dorian whispered.

Fen’Asha moaned, covered her face.

“That’s a yes,” Dorian said, happily. 

 

After a rest, the inquisition dispersed into separate units to finish their work in Crestwood, Iron Bull led the dragon hunt, Sera returned to the village to confront Mayor Dedrick, whereas Fen’Asha’s group headed out to meet Hawke and the Grey Warden.

In the dusk of twilight, everyone regrouped at camp.

Sera reported Mayor Dedrick had disappeared leaving only behind his confession to drowning people sick with the Blight.

And Fen’Asha only had more bad news. The Grey Warden Stroud’s information was disturbing, revealing that Corypheus could survive a fatal wound.

But that was not all. The Wardens began to hear the Calling and believed themselves near death. The Grey Warden Commander Clarel began experimenting with blood magic, hoping to enact a ritual to “end all Blights.” Stroud was sure Corypheus had something to do with it.

Varric swore, wondering what he unleashed on the world. Blackwall was stunned by behaviour of his fellow Wardens. Fen’Asha attempted reassurance, stating her intentions and plans. Corypheus would be killed, the Wardens would be stopped, the world would be saved. It was decent if unpersuasive discourse.

Her companions mumbled their agreement as they dispersed, spirits low as they vanished into their tents.

Fen’Asha sighed, rubbed her neck, looked to the moon looming large over the horizon. 

 “We must stop the Wardens from carrying out this thoughtless plan,” Solas said, approaching from behind. “To seek out the old gods in some bizarre attempt to prevent the Blight…”

“They won’t succeed,” said Fen’Asha.

Solas looked to her, eyes shining. “I wish I shared your faith,” he said. “But I have seen such foolishness in this world, such devastation…”

“We’ll accomplish it together,” said Fen’Asha. “Somehow.”

“You are certainly an optimistic leader,” he said.

She smiled. “There is no other way,” she said. “And I have faith in you.”

“It…” he began. “I have been on my own for so long that I am unaccustomed to the support of others.”

“You are not alone anymore,” she said. “You have me. You have the Inquisition.”

“Yes…”

Fen’Asha studied his face, sensing his unease below the surface.

“There is much to do,” he said after a while. “Good night, Inquisitor.”

Fen’Asha frowned as she watched him dissolve into the shadows, watched the shadows part for her hopes and desires to remain as torment for yet another night.


	8. Pt.1 - Solas: Woof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you talk to me I can’t focus on what you’re saying. My mind gets lost in the movement of your lips, the color of your eyes, and the gesturing of your hands. And I want to move my lips right close to your ear, and whisper things that only you are meant to hear.  
> \- “Now You Know” Marketa Irglova

Iron Bull rallied everyone at Skyhold to the tavern to celebrate the kill of the Crestwood dragon. The throng cheered as Bull recounted the fight to end all fights. “Drinks are on me,” he bellowed.

The crowd yelled its already half-sauced approval. 

Iron Bull pulled Fen’Asha to a quiet corner of the tavern. He shook his head at her beverage of choice. “You don’t want that swill, boss,” he said. “ _This_ is what we drink after a fucking dragon.” He poured a dark brew from his silver pitcher, the one with the burn marks on it.

The stuff burned going down and Fen’Asha nearly hacked up a lung.

Iron Bull told her of the Qunari’s unique relationship to dragons, how his blood sang at the thought of the majestic beasts.

She struggled through Bull’s nasty elixir. It made her head spin.

“ _Anaan_ ,” Bull hailed, clinking her glass as they finished another round. He patted her roughly on the back.

Fen’Asha didn’t see Sera park her rump in the next spot.

“Hanging in there?” said the elf.

Fen’Asha nodded.

“I know what’s going on,” said Sera.

“Sera…” Fen’Asha breathed, her throat burning.

“You almost had me, but saw how you look at him. You’re fucking in it.”

“Huh?”

Sera leaned in close and giggled. “I bet he says ‘elven glory’ when he does it.”

“Listen…” began Fen’Asha before the spinning got out of control.

Sera disappeared back into the din, her sniggering trailing with her. Mission accomplished.

Fen’Asha turned pink, then red, then some other colours.

It was too noisy in the tavern. She stumbled out into the night air. She wanted to see Solas. Needed to see Solas. Somehow she made her way to his rotunda. Somehow she found him facing the wall… Painting? Of course, he was painting…

She plopped heavily against his desk. “I did… saw _…_ you… painted that,” she slurred. “It’s beautiful.” She plunked down in his chair. It creaked desperately.

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” Solas said. He put down the…brush or something.

“I specially like the worrves’ things…whatnot,” she attempted. “I’m a…woof.”

“Are you?” Solas asked. He approached cautiously, like he would a darkspawn.

“Woof woman! That’s me!” she raised her arm as if answering roll call. “I just _love_ woofs. I worship the dead…woofs,” she said. She dropped her arm in emphasis with a thwack on his table.

“Is that so?” Solas said. He put the back of his cool hand on her hot forehead.

“Oh yeah,” she drawled. She leered up at him. “That’s nice…”

“Do you think you can stand?”

“Uh huh,” Fen’Asha said. She attempted the feat on the rickety floor. Someone was going to have to fix that. But before she’d begun to notify Solas that the floor was “crooked” and that she, the Inquishitter, was going to fix everything, she fell on him.

He picked her up without a sound.

She drearily wrapped her arms around his neck. “You smell...” she muttered. She nuzzled him, breathing him in. “So good…”

Everything spun. She closed her eyes. Somehow heaven was in his arms. Somehow she was in her room.

Solas laid her on her bed and the spinning slowed.

“Why…you so…good, Solas?” she whispered.

“Rest, _lethallan_.”

Nope. Not now. She had something to tell him. “Solas, I…”

He stopped her with a kiss on the forehead. “ _Hamin_.”

She flaccidly reached for his sleeve, a fraught movement. “Stay…”

He shook his head softly but obliged, sitting on her bed. She snuggled up to him. He put his arm around her. She closed her eyes again. She felt the peace of the evening settling in.

“ _Ar lath_ …” she breathed.

 

When she woke at sunrise, he was gone. Her head throbbed, the sun cutting bright into her hazy world. In the distance, noise clustered. Troops were running drills with far too much vigour.

Fen’Asha dressed herself somehow and shook her head, hoping her hair would somehow tumble into place. The movement was agonizing and she landed back down on her bed, fingers clutching limply at the sheets for some means of shelter from the petrifying sun. She needed quiet. She needed darkness.

The library.

She moseyed limply toward the rotunda once more, however, ducking various morning greetings with a wave and what she thought was a smile.

“Good morning, Inquisitor.” It was Solas.

“Oh,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “Good morning, Solas.”

“Sleep well?”

“I’m…not sure,” she muttered. “I don’t even know what happened.”

He was smiling. “You look as though you could use some refreshment. Shall we have some tea?”

Fen’Asha nodded and leaned against his desk.

“Please, sit,” he gestured to his chair.

She gratefully did as was asked, held her head while he rummaged with the tea. Memories of the evening were beginning to collect. She’d been in the rotunda last night, hadn’t she? She’d seen the mural, Solas’ mural and the wolves painted in black.

She fingered her pendant. The silver wolf.

Solas presented her with a steaming cup of tea.

“ _Ma serannas_ ,” she whispered. Embrium and lemon.

Solas sipped his and made a face.

“Is something wrong?”

“Tea,” he said. “I detest the stuff.”

Fen’Asha raised her eyebrows.

“This morning, I needed to shake the dreams from my mind. It will have to do,” he said.

She nodded.

“I may need a favour,” he said.

“Of course,” she said. She set her cup down.

“One of my oldest friends has been captured by mages, forced into slavery,” he began. He was pacing. “I heard the cry for help as I slept.”

Fen’Asha exhaled, sensing his distress. “I’d be happy to help. Was it blood magic?”

“A summoning circle, I would imagine.”

Her eyes widened. “I don’t understand.

Solas stilled. He regarded her, eyes soft. “My friend is a spirit of wisdom,” he said. “Unlike the other spirits clamoring to enter our world through the rifts, it was dwelling quite happily in the Fade.”

She nodded.

“It was summoned against its will. It wants my help to gain its freedom and return to the Fade.”

“Do you have any idea what the mages want with your friend?”

“No,” Solas said. “It knows a great deal of lore and history, but a mage could learn that simply speaking to it in the Fade. It is possible that they seek information it does not wish to give and intend to torture it.”

“Do you know where we should go?”

“The Exalted Plains. I sensed it.”

“That is on our way to the Western Approach. I just need to make the preparations.”

“Thank you,” Solas said.

She nodded.

“I appreciate it,” he said. “Truly.”

Fen’Asha blushed and rubbed her temples, still feeling the sting. “Thank you for the tea,” she said. “And for helping me to bed last night.”

Solas nodded.

She turned to leave, taking one last sip of tea and heading for the stairs despite her intentions to see Josephine to make arrangements for the trip.

 

The party found itself back in the carriages the following day, wheeling toward the Exalted Plains. Fen’Asha studied magical bindings, thumbing through a book that she found remarkably useful for a change.

Vivienne also had her nose buried in a book, whereas Blackwall was quietly watching the scenery pass. Solas and Cole were chattering.

 **“** I made the scullery maid stop crying and one of the boys in the stable is happier. Some of the servants are angry,” Cole said. He frowned. “My help makes work for them. Do you want me to stop?

 **“** No,” said Solas. “You exist to help others. You are kindness, compassion, caring. If you stop giving comfort, you would twist into something else, as you did before I suspect.”

Cole nodded.

“Never forget your purpose. It is an honourable one, even if this world…” said Solas.

“You should not encourage that thing,” Vivienne said.

“Solas is not a thing,” Cole said.

“Well said,” Solas said.

“Solas doesn't fear spirits, Vivienne,” Cole said. “Why do you?”

“Your apostate friend did not benefit from formal training in a Circle,” Vivienne said.

“How unfortunate for me,” Solas said.

“The Circle makes you afraid?” Cole asked. “Are the demons stronger there?”

“The Circle taught me the tricks demons play to gain the trust of any mage foolish enough to listen,” she said, looking at Fen’Asha and Solas.

“You're afraid. You don't have to be,” Cole said.

“My dear Inquisitor,” said Vivienne, electing to ignore Cole. “Please restrain your pet demon.”

“He's not doing any harm,” Fen’Asha said.

“It's a demon, darling,” said Vivienne. “All it can do is harm. Remember, the harmless-looking ones are always the most dangerous.” She returned to her book apparently done with her part in the conversation.

Fen’Asha shook her head, tried to conceal a smirk.

“You have seen a great deal of battle,” Solas said, placing his attention on Blackwall for a change, unusually talkative.

“We all have,” Blackwall said.

“Not all, not like you. You live and breathe war,” Solas said. “You understand it. It is home to you.”

“What brought this on?” Blackwall said, shifting.

“I intended no offense,” Solas said. “We have both seen terrible things. We have watched death and destruction render that which we love unrecognizable. It is calming to see something familiar in another.”

Fen’Asha’s ears perked up.

“You fought in a war?” Blackwall asked.

“There are struggles across Thedas at any given time. I doubt you would have heard of it,” Solas replied.

“An elven skirmish?” Blackwall asked.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“I never would have guessed,” Blackwall said. “You don't carry yourself like a soldier.”

“You should have seen me when I was younger,” Solas smirked. “Hot-blooded, cocky, always ready to fight.”

“Ah, yes,” Blackwall said. “The folly of youth.”

“It is a delicate balance for those who fight,” continued Solas. “If they lack sufficient passion, they never become truly skilled and die, or leave the life.”

“But too much passion, and they end up dead,” Blackwall said. “Or monsters better off dead.”

“Yes,” said Solas. “It is a rare soldier who can fight without letting it define him.”

 **“** You are different, Solas,” Cole said. “I don't hear your hurt as much. Your song is softer, subtler, not silent but still.”

Solas nodded. **“** How small the pain of one man seems when weighed against the endless depths of memory, of feeling, of existence,” he said.

Blackwall nodded.

“That ocean carries everyone,” Solas continued. “And those of us who learn to see its currents move through life with their fewer ripples.”

 **“** There is pain though, still within you,” said Cole.

 **“** I never said that there was not.”

Cole paused. **“** They are not gone so long as you remember them,” he said.

Solas stiffened. “I know.”

 **“** But you could let them go.”

 **“** I know.”

 **“** You didn't do it to be right,” Cole said. “You did it to save them.”

 **“** Solas,” Fen’Asha said finally. “What is Cole talking about?”

 **“** A mistake,” he said. “One of many made by a much younger elf who was certain he knew everything.”

“You weren't wrong,” Cole said.                                       

“Thank you, Cole,” Solas said.

 


	9. Pt.1 - Solas: Devotion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When a moon is throwing shadows, you can’t save the ones you’ve caught in battle. Don’t leave me on my own. Left me standing all alone. Cut me down to size so I can fit inside. Lies you try to hide behind your eyes.  
> \- “Blue Moon” Beck

The wind carried the scent of smoke and death across the undulating grasslands of the Exalted Plains, with its forgotten strongholds and relics flecking the region with sinister memories. It had been seven hundred years since the elven army fell to the Chantry, but wounds endured.

Scout Harding approached the company and presented her status report. Violence prevailed on the Exalted Plains, with the Undead rising to overrun a cluster of Empress Celene’s battlements. There was also a Dalish clan living somewhere along the Enavuris River.

Fen’Asha and her group got to work, forming a rescue party to seek Solas’ friend. This was no easy task. The rest of the Inquisition dispersed to handle hordes of Undead dotting the way.

Soon, they came upon what was left of a bandit camp. A thick crimson trail led from it, coursing through to a congregation of corpses.

Solas’ discomfort grew as they followed the trace of blood and bodies maimed by deep claws and found what they were after.

“My friend,” gasped Solas.

A monstrous pride demon crouched before him in the midst of a ritual circle. It growled. Reverberations echoed through the ground.

“The mages turned it into a demon,” said Fen’Asha.

Solas nodded.

“It was a spirit of wisdom,” said Fen’Asha. “And now…”

“A spirit becomes a demon when denied its original purpose,” he said.

“I don’t understand.”

A man approached the group, selecting his steps with care. He was dressed like a former Circle mage.

“Let’s ask him,” said Solas.

“You are a mage,” sighed the man. “You aren’t one of the bandits? Do you have any lyrium? We’re exhausted. That demon…”

“You summoned it,” said Solas.

The former Circle mage opened his mouth.

“It was a spirit of Wisdom at the time,” Solas continued. “You turned it into a killer, perverted it against its purpose.”

The mage shook his head as if to fight off Solas’ frozen glare.

“You…” continued Solas.

“Look,” stammered the mage. “I know how this looks. It’s probably confusing for someone who hasn’t studied demons, but…”

Solas cocked his head, his eyes allaying to the heavens.

“If you’d help us…”

“We are not here to help you,” Solas rumbled.

“Listen…”

Solas stared through him.

Fen’Asha winced.

“Look,” said the mage. “I was in the Kirkwall Circle. I know what I’m…”

“Shut up,” said Solas.

“Excuse me?”

“You summoned the demon,” said Solas. “To protect you from bandits.”

The mage shifted.

“And you bound it to obedience, commanded it to kill. It turned,” continued Solas.

The mage assented reluctantly.

Solas turned to Fen’Asha. “We break the summoning circle, break the binding.”

“If I may interject,” the mage said. “That binding is the only thing keeping it from killing us. Whatever it was before…”

“Please,” Solas said, ignoring the mage. “There’s no time, Inquisitor.”

“I’ve studied this,” said Fen’Asha. “I think I can disrupt the binding.”

“Thank you,” Solas whispered.

The pride demon roared, growing in its distress.

Solas’ eyes widened. “Hurry.”

Fen’Asha spread the group out, shouting calls to action. “Attack the pillars, not the demon.”

Predictably, the demon lunged first. Its furious energy lashed through the air and the group scattered, attacking the pillars dutifully and cracking the stones with the blistering force of weapons and spells. Within seconds, the demon disintegrated into the fog of broken magic.

When the haze cleared, a slight figure remained.

Solas approached it, knelt at its side. “I am sorry,” he said.

“I am not,” said the figure. “I am myself again. You have helped me and now you must endure. Guide me to death, friend.”

Solas closed his eyes. “As you say.” He raised his hand to what was left of his friend, what remained of the spirit of Wisdom. A black haze enveloped the figure, fragmenting into dust and nothingness.

“You helped your friend in the end, Solas,” said Fen’Asha as he returned to her side.

“And now I must endure,” he said. He gazed at the passing Enavuris River before casting his eye to the mage that’d been the source of such suffering in the first place.

“Thank you,” said the mage, clutching at his robes. The others in his group joined him in a tentative gathering.

Solas stepped toward them.

“We would not have hazarded a summoning, but the robbers are…”

“You tortured and killed my friend,” said Solas.

“We didn’t know,” said the mage.

“The book said…” said another mage.

There was a flash of red and heat and what was left of the former Circle mages dispersed like dust in the wind, a staggering and sudden end caused by the tips of Solas’ fingers.

He hadn’t left Fen’Asha’s side, but the violence made him seem miles away. She looked at him, trying to force words from her lips. Nothing came.

“I need some time,” he said without looking at her. “I will find you at Skyhold.”

Solas walked away and she watched him. The party remained silent, as they had throughout the entire interaction. It had taken mere minutes, maybe even seconds. There was nothing to do, nothing to say.

Fen’Asha had to continue. She, like Solas, had to endure. The Exalted Plains needed her, needed the Inquisition. She turned to the group, offered a slight grin as if to say that everything had gone according to plan. She collected her thoughts and continued on.

 

Days passed with Solas gone, with the unit working in the Exalted Plains. Fen’Asha kept mostly to herself. The distance she felt from Solas was acute, bestowing itself as an intense pain she submerged within.

They fought Undead by the hundreds, winning back ramparts and barracks until it became routine. They spoke with the Dalish, fostering a connection with the disinclined elves. They closed rifts. Iron Bull rejoiced at the slaying of another dragon at Crow Fens.

Camp was made outside the springs and they arranged to depart for the Western Approach in the morning. The Inquisition gathered to celebrate another successful campaign.

Fen’Asha avoided the festivities, preferring the privacy of her tent until the moon was high.

And then she crept out. She watched, waited until the night sentry turned, until he wouldn’t see. She stole away from camp to seek her secrets in the still of night.

The water was warm on her bare feet. The moon reflected in the ripples of her steps. She hugged her filmy robe tight, not caring that it tread water as she slinked through the spring.

Solas was gone.

She was empty.

She was terrified of the gravity of her feeling, of her wanting. There had been love in her heart before, she thought. This was deeper. The absence burned, tortured her worse than hunger.

He had guided her through everything. Hadn’t he?

She was lost.

Yet something called from elsewhere, from an unexpected but familiar warmth in the cool of her loneliness. Something loomed, yowled, murmured.

She felt the energy earlier in the day. The shrine called to her, its song reverberated with the core of her being. She had to see it again, had to be in its presence again. She fingered the wolf of her chain as it draped from her neck. It caught the moon. She swore she heard indistinct howls, smelled fur.

Her heart pounded. All her life she was warned to stay away, stay vigilant. But all her life she felt a tug, a wish, a kindred spirit.

She climbed stairs, approaching the Shrine above, through the vapour and humidity. The smell, the taste…

The two wolves awaited her in the soft moonlight. One black, one white, unified in their eternal cry to the moon.

She told Solas she worshipped the Wolf, hadn’t she? That she loved the Wolf?

The necklace felt hot. She towed at it, removed it from her neck. It drifted from between her breasts reluctantly and she held it in her hand for a moment before placing it in the silver plate in front of her. An offering. She knelt at the altar, on her knees in the Shrine.

She was lost.

Fen’Harel was the Trickster. The Deceiver. The Lone Wolf.

She was the Inquisitor. The First. The Wolf Woman.

She was found.

Her eyes were drawn below, to the foot of the altar, to a small dark stone. She touched it. It was smooth, round, warm. She put it in her pocket.

She exhaled heavily, her pulse rushing with the wolves toward the luminous moon.

 

With business attended to, the Inquisition carried on to the Western Approach.

Fen’Asha held the stone when she prayed. Her loneliness ebbed each night under the moon. The vast expanse of desert sand seemed to reflect the endless hours the Inquisition had spent reaching their destination. More than one of her companions stated that if they saw the inside of a carriage again, it would be too soon. But the Inquisitor was eager to complete their work quickly.

Lost in the sun and the heat of battle, time once again passed as though it was nothing.

The Inquisition tracked Hawke and Stroud to the Tevinter ruin, discovering a blood sacrifice and demon-binding ceremony. The Grey Warden mages were without free will. They lived in bondage to Corypheus, followed orders without thought.

Livius Erimond, the Tevinter magister, was in charge of the travesty. His mind had twisted itself to believe that he was to become a god-king, with Corypheus ruling the Golden City.

“Release the Wardens,” Fen’Asha said as he droned on.

He ignored her.

“I’m not asking,” she said.

Erimond sighed. “No, you aren’t.” He lifted his hand.

Fen’Asha collapsed. The magister was toying with the anchor and the pain ripped through her hand.

“The Elder One told me how to deal with you,” Erimond sneered.

She moaned.

“That Anchor of yours? You stole it,” said Erimond.

Fen’Asha groaned. She drew focus, forced the pain from her mind, clenched her teeth.

“Corypheus will reward me greatly,” Erimond continued.

She rose and he didn’t see her jerk her hand forward, heaving him ahead with it in a swell of rift magic. He sailed through the air like she’d just tugged on his leash. In many ways, that was exactly what she’d done.

Erimond dropped to the ground, his chin scraping on the stone. “Kill them,” he grimaced.

The Grey Wardens, indoctrinated and dilapidated, were no match for the Inquisition. The battle was over before it began and all that remained was a mass of dust, magic and noise.

In the commotion, Erimond absconded with his life.

Fen’Asha cursed his escape, but Stroud suggested that he might be headed to Adamant Fortress. He offered to venture there with Hawke, while Fen’Asha returned to other business. The plan was agreeable.

Fen’Asha took to the rest of her tasks with vigour, gaining the prize of Griffon Wing Keep with clear victory and disposing of Venatori agents. It was becoming routine, like any other vocation. Before long, it was time to return to Skyhold. To Solas.

 

As soon as she’d met with her advisors and exchanged updates, Fen’Asha rushed to the rotunda. To Solas.

Solas was gone.

Solas was hiding, playing a trick.

She pacified her sprinting heart, playing with the papers on his table before rushing from the rotunda. She needed answers.

There were none. Leliana had not heard word. Cullen had not received any reports. Scout Harding didn’t see him on her travels.

She fished in her pocket, clutched the stone and prayed to the darkness. To the moon. To the Wolf.

The time passed again, as it did. There were things to do.

Josephine was keen for Fen’Asha to learn more of the Great Game. There were invitations to the Winter Palace. There was fun to be had, business to attend to.

Fen’Asha also received a letter from her Keeper. Bandits were creating problems for her people.

Every day she checked with Leliana, Cullen and Harding regarding Solas. Every day they had no news.

She clung to her companions, watched Cassandra train on the dummies, sat with Blackwall as he carved wood, drank with Iron Bull and his Chargers, studied magic with Vivienne, played cards with Varric, scrutinized books with Dorian, observed Cole’s way of helping the people, and threw things at Cassandra with Sera.

There was the new arcanist, a dwarf named Dagna. She shared Fen’Asha’s inquisitive spirit and her enthusiasm was contagious. Sitting in the cool of the Undercroft, they fathomed the far reaches of magic. She helped Fen’Asha place the stone in a necklace.

Finally, one bright day Leliana came with news that Solas had been spotted on the mountain pass. She barely refrained from embracing the serious woman. She fretted over her hair and clothes briefly before giving up the idea. Then rushed to him, ashamed only slightly by her zeal.

“Inquisitor,” he said. He nodded, strolling into Skyhold’s courtyard.

“Are you…” she stammered, winded.

“It still hurts,” he said. “It always will, but I will survive.”

“Thank you for returning,” she said.

“You are a true friend,” he said. The corners of his lips turned up faintly. “You helped me. I could hardly abandon you now.”

She swallowed. Attempted to slow her rapid pulse. Attempted mere cordiality. “Where did you go?” she asked.

“I…” he looked up at the stretch of Skyhold’s towers. “I went to sleep.”

“Oh.”

“I visited the Fade,” he continued. “I found the place where I spent time with my friend, where we used to talk. It is deserted now.” He looked down.

“I’m sorry, Solas.”

“There are stirrings, Inquisitor,” he looked up. His eyes shone. “One day, something may grow again.”

“What happens when a spirit dies?” she asked. She frowned, the question sounded too methodical.

“It isn’t the same as it is for mortals,” he said. “The energy returns to the Fade. If the essence forming the spirit is strong enough, it may rise again.”

“So your friend…?”

“Not necessarily,” he said. “The natural state of a spirit is peaceful. A semi-existence. It is rare to reflect reality again. Something may reform, but it will not be the same. Its memories gone, its essence different.” He looked down.

“You’re not alone,” Fen’Asha said. She looked down too, unsure of the impact of her hurried words.

“It has been so long since I felt I could trust someone,” he said.

She smiled.

“Thank you, my friend,” Solas said.


	10. Pt.1 - Solas: Affirmation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was broken, I was blind. Lost in a moment I thought I left behind. Then you woke up this dark soul of mine, carrying a light I thought I’d never find. When you found me I was all alone. The whole world around me, but nowhere to call home. I heard your voice sing like heavens choir, gathered up my fears and threw them in the fire.  
> \- “Sweet Love Of Mine” Joy Williams

Josephine was thrilled at the arrival of a package. “An express delivery from Val Royeaux,” she tittered. She opened it and hoisted out a mess of fabric, spreading it out across the flat of her desk and then holding it against herself.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Josie,” said Leliana.

It was a lovely dress, with a well-appointed black bodice and a twinkling skirt that lingered like starlight.

Fen’Asha grimaced. “It’s pretty,” she said. “But I can’t. I’ve never worn a dress.”

“We have time to work it in,” said Josephine.

“I can’t,” Fen’Asha shrugged. “I have much to do. We’re leaving for the Emerald Graves tomorrow. I don’t…”

Josephine looked down.

“Maybe we could trim the skirt…”

“No,” said Josephine, shielding the dress. “No. That will never do.”

“I don’t mean to be difficult,” said Fen’Asha. “I’m sorry. I would prefer something else. Something more my speed.”

Leliana eyed Fen’Asha’s figure. “I have an idea,” she said. “Boots to the thigh. Military cut.”

Josephine nodded slowly.

“We could all wear it,” said Leliana. “Make a statement.”

“That _would_ solve some problems,” said Josephine. She tipped the dress into the box.

“I’m not looking forward to the…dancing,” said Fen’Asha.

“Scout Harding could teach you,” said Josephine. “Or Dorian.”

Fen’Asha agreed. “I’ll come up with something.”

“And I will order the attire,” said Josephine as she took her seat.

With Scout Harding in the field as usual, Fen’Asha made her way to Dorian in the tower library. Dancing was not something she was looking forward to, particularly in front of so many grandiloquent nobles, but there were benefits.

“Inquisitor,” said Dorian upon her arrival.

She smiled.

“You seem to have recuperated your spirits with the return of a certain someone,” he said.

Fen’Asha tried to disguise the smile but to no avail. “I need to dance.”

“Here?” said Dorian, raising an eyebrow. “Take heart, Inquisitor. Your uninhibited display of jubilation shall be safe with me.” He waved a hand in front of himself.

“No,” she stammered. “I need to learn to dance. For the ball.”

“Ah,” said Dorian. “I would be honoured. But perhaps…”

“Yes?”

“Perhaps _he_ is more suited to the task,” said Dorian, motioning below to Solas’ rounded chamber.

Fen’Asha looked over the rail and saw him reading something, as usual.

“Solas?” shouted Dorian.

Solas looked up.

“Could you do us the favour of assisting our charming Inquisitor with something?”

“Of course,” said Solas. “What is it?”

“She needs to learn…to dance.”

“Ah,” Solas said. “I would be happy to.”

Dorian winked. “You’re welcome,” he whispered.

 

The soaring trees of the Emerald Graves were quite a sight. Fen’Asha admired them, noting that every one of them was said to mark the grave of a fallen elf. This gave the forest a certain melancholy.

Lately, the Emerald Graves had been the topic of rumours. The Freemen of the Dales, deserters of the war, had come from the Exalted Plains and were harassing refugees. Red Templars and Venatori were spotted and Fade rifts abounded.

Fen’Asha was pleased to have Solas back in the party. She felt complete. She felt happy.

At night once the moon rose, Solas took Fen’Asha away from camp to rehearse the fine art of dance.

“I have learned many skills in my travels,” Solas said as he took her hand.

“I know the basics,” said Fen’Asha. “I think.”

“You have a good foundation,” said Solas. “There are some Dalish movements you are doubtlessly familiar with.”

She nodded.

Solas moved, edging her arms against his. He trod blithely under the moon, showing her how to let her body sway this way and that. He showed her how to pad the ground without care, how to move as light as air. He was nimble, impossibly so, and her heart pounded in his arms.

“Try to relax,” he said after she stepped on his foot.

She nodded again.

“Think of it like a battle,” he said. “I am your opponent. Look me in the eye, feel my movements, anticipate my actions. I step back, you advance. I step back, you advance.”

She smiled. He was an excellent teacher.

“You are doing better, _lethallan_ ,” he said after a while.

And she was. The movements had become smoother and she was adapting to his presence well. She didn’t quiver when he wrapped his arm around her waist. She intuitively rested her hand at the back of his neck.

“You have a rather romantic view of battle,” she said.

“Or else a pessimistic view of romance,” he said.

“You would think of a lover as an opponent?”

Solas sighed. “I am not convinced people are forthcoming with their motivations,” he said.

“You are cynical,” she said with a grin. “Are you saying I shouldn’t trust you?”

“I am saying we don’t know each other well,” he replied.

She nodded.

The dance slowed to a standstill and Fen’Asha was surprised as to how close she was to Solas, how her hand held his. His face almost touched hers, his lips so near.

She wanted to know him, wanted to tell him so.

“You have done well, Inquisitor,” he said. He released her.

 

Days turned to nights as the Inquisition worked through the Emerald Graves. Solas and Fen’Asha continued to dance in the evenings, learning and talking as the moon inspected their steps. Each night brought them closer together. Each night he let her go.

Before she knew it, their work at the Emerald Graves was completed and she was ready for the ball.

She was smiling when he dipped her low. She almost shrieked.

“You dropped your guard,” he said.

She laughed.

He lifted her again and held her tight. Something different was in his eyes, something that looked like affection. He traced a hand down her spine and she trembled. She held her breath. And he released her. Again.

“Shall we return to camp?” he said, the jawbone necklace hung low down his abdomen, a shadow on his white tunic.

She exhaled. “I think I’d like to stay a little longer,” she said. “Don’t stay on my account.”

Solas turned to leave. “Thank you for the dance,” he offered over his shoulder before he departed.

Fen’Asha sighed, looking through the trees. She touched the leaves and walked, the moon peering down at her through a lattice of dark green. Without thinking, she pulled herself up in a tree. She felt its bark, the earthy moss covering it. She climbed to a wide branch and a gentle breeze greeted her. She sat.

Solas would be back at camp, reading or studying. She had so much to say to him, so many considerations. She knew how she felt, but the words caught on her tongue with such regularity that she began to wonder if it was part of the plan at all. Love was a choice. But maybe it was also a curse.

She wished someone could give her guidance. She wished Fen’Harel would…

“You look to the moon like he is there, but he’s not,” came a voice.

It was Cole and she started at the sight of him. He sat cross-legged on the wide branch.

“He does watch you,” he continued.

“What?” said Fen’Asha. “How did you…”

“He who hunts alone,” he began before burbling off a rapid succession of elven sentences.

She drowned in his words, narrowly able to understand.

Fen’Harel… he said. Didn’t he?

“Cole,” she said, trying to slow him. “What are you saying?”

“You are wondering if you can believe me,” he said. “I only wish to help, not mislead.”

“Are…are you saying Fen’Harel is real?”

Cole cocked his head. “Why would you talk to someone who isn’t real?”

“I…”

“People are very strange,” Cole said.

“We are,” said Fen’Asha.

“Still, I like to help,” he said. He was smiling now.

 

Fen’Asha woke to darkness. Her dreams were haunted by wolves, while Fen’Harel watched over her. Her emotions tied her in knots, so she stepped out of her tent to find some space to call her own.

Dawn heartened the skyline and the grass was still moist beneath her feet.

She silenced the greeting of a night guard with a finger to her lips and crossed camp to the great stone statue of the Wolf. It was cool to the touch. She stroked the snout and wondered how the Dalish felt when they saw Fen’Harel in such a setting. He was so elegant, so kind.

Fen’Asha headed deeper into the forest, eager to leave a more appropriate offering, eager to reach out beyond her daily prayers.

She picked flowers, remembering the shrine in Crow Fens. It was compelling and she felt yearning on that night. She felt need. She retrieved the stone that night, left her necklace that night.

She left her flowers at the foot of the Wolf and prayed. She prayed for safety on the road, for wisdom. She watched the Wolf as she prayed, sure of the presence of its eyes and the shape of its snout.

The ground shifted slightly behind her and she sensed a presence. She turned her head.

“I didn’t know you kept to such superstitions, Inquisitor,” came a voice. It was Solas.

She exhaled.

“You left no other offerings at the other effigies,” said Solas.

“No,” she said, self-conscious. “I should have. I was hoping this would make up for it.”

Solas nodded.

“I hope it appeases him,” she said. She touched the prayer stone in her necklace.

Solas chuckled.

She started at the laughter, looked up at the Wolf, felt the exposure in her bones.

“Forgive me, _lethallan_ ,” said Solas. “I do not intend to make light of this. Surely he is appeased.”

Fen’Asha’s blush deepened. She nodded, pulled away some vagrant vines from the Wolf.

Solas joined her, picking a stray feather from its ear. “So much has been lost,” he whispered.

 

The Inquisition traveled back to Skyhold and Fen’Asha couldn’t take her mind off the Dread Wolf. She knew she had to sort out her feelings, to consider the wisdom of her commitment.

She studied elven lore when she returned to Skyhold, asking the librarian for any and all books on the subject that could be safely located. With the assistance of a few broad-shouldered dwarves, she took the collection to her room. With a mountain of books stacked both on and below the bed, she made herself cozy at the centre and began to read.

The day wore on leaving her with nothing but coarse information. She expected to find her soul moved or at least to find the answers her heart sought. She found nothing of the sort. She flipped the pages.

As evening approached, she found it, a fable of Fen’Harel unknown to her. Happily she turned over onto her stomach, kicked her feet.

There was a knock at the door, most likely her supper. She called for them to come up, too engrossed in her research to stop.

There was an elvhen noble who fell in love with a woman at the funeral of the King’s daughter. He was desperate to see the favour of his affection again. So he prayed. No one answered his prayers.

Someone coughed.

She requested the meal be left on the side table, thank you so much, and continued to read.

The noble prayed. Fen’Harel answered his prayers. Fen’Harel said…

“Inquisitor, do you have a moment?”

She looked up surprised. “Solas. _Aneth ara_ …” she closed her book. “What can I do for you?”

He pointed her toward the veranda and she followed, leaving her makeshift stronghold of tomes and knocking over a tottering tower.

“What is it?” she asked, overlooking the fallen books.

“What were you like before the Anchor?” he asked. “Has it affected you? Changed you?”

She looked at the books, looked at the mark, looked at Solas. “I don’t think so.”

“Ah,” he said. He looked away.

“Why?”

“You show a wisdom I have not seen since my deepest journeys into ancient memories of the Fade,” he said. “You are not what I expected.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” she said, for disappoint him she would.

“Most people are predictable,” he sighed. “You have shown refinement in your actions. A wisdom that defies expectations. If the Dalish have raised someone with a spirit such as yours…”

She tilted her head. The wise did not fall prey to the Wolf.

“Perhaps I have misjudged them.”

“The decisions I have made were mine,” she said seeking liability with surprising confidence.

“Yes,” Solas nodded. “You are wise to give yourself that due. But the Dalish, in their fashion, must have surely guided you. You are unique. People act with such little understanding of the world, but not you.”

The air on the balcony was bracing.

“I…” she shook her head. She looked at him, his eyes were shimmering. “Solas…”

“I have not forgotten the kiss,” he interrupted. He stepped forward.

She held her breath despite the sudden haste of her heart.

He was watching.

Words failed her. She stepped closer to him, hands behind her back. She waited.

He shook his head and stepped back.

“Don’t go,” she demanded. She stepped closer again, thwarting him. If he was to be her opponent now, she would be victorious for a change.

“It would be kinder in the long run, but…” he said. He stepped back, then forward again, into her. He wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her.

The kiss was soft, affectionate. The air was sparks, slivers of light and hunger raining, swamping. Withheld love and desire, moving them into a deeper embrace. They held each other tightly. The taste. The light. She melted into him until the kiss broke and they stood facing each other, breathing heavily.

“ _Ar lath ma, Vhenan_ ,” he said. Solas turned around and returned to the bedroom.

She followed him sluggishly, as though she’d gorged herself on ale at the tavern.

He was leaving.

“Wait,” she said snapping out of her reverie. She descended the stairs, nearly tumbling.

He wasn’t turning around.

“I love you too,” she said. “You are… _ma Vhenas_ …for a long time you have been. Without you I’m…lost. I…”

He broke, turned to her. He kissed her again. He huddled against her in the stairwell, sheltered.

“ _Vhenas_ ,” she said again.

He pressed her against the wall.

She gripped the rail and he positioned his grazes lower as she drew herself up, impatient to meet his lips. She sank into desire as he caressed her neckline, quivers straying down her back like little sparks. She swathed her legs around him, lugging him closer.

She grew warm, bit back a whimper as he burrowed into the curl of her shoulder with hot, wet kisses.

A knock at the door interrupted the passion.

They disentangled themselves.

“Yes?” Fen’Asha said, catching her breath.

“Inquisitor, Hawke has returned with news,” came a voice. It was one of Leliana’s spies.

The matter was pressing and Solas pulled away, looking thoughtfully at her before taking his leave past the scout lingering on the other side of the door. She frowned and headed to see Hawke.

 

Memories of the kiss flooded her as she tried to concentrate on Hawke’s important information.

He was prattling on about the Grey Warden presence at Adamant Fortress, about how imperative the matter was. An attack was necessary. As soon as possible.

All the while, Solas ducked in and out of her thoughts. _Ar lath ma, Vhenan_.

She touched her neck, hoping Hawke wasn’t noticing her distractedness. She smoothed the corners of the war table, trying to concentrate instead on the figures as they paced across the map. Tactics were considered, moves were made and taken back. It was like a chess board, a game, a dance…

How they danced.

“Adamant Fortress is crucial,” said Cullen. “We must strike a blow at Corypheus’ demon army before they march across Thedas.”

“But the ball,” said Josephine. “Celene will be killed and Orlais will be thrust into chaos.”

“Corypheus is cunning,” said Leliana.

“We will have to head to the Winter Palace first,” said Fen’Asha. She gestured to the map, thoughts appropriately cleared.

“What about Adamant?” said Hawke.

“Hawke and Stroud will push ahead with a brigade,” said Fen’Asha. “Cullen will be with us in Orlais, then we will support the unit at Adamant after the ball.”

“If you think this is best…” continued Hawke.

“We will rendezvous here,” she said, pointing to a strategic location on the map. “And continue with our full strike on Adamant.”

The plan was agreeable to most in the room and that was all that was required. Fen’Asha nodded at Hawke and the wheels were in motion.

She found little time for Solas following the meeting with Hawke, so she clung to bartered looks and fleeting words. It would have to do. Preparations for the ball were agonizing, with Josephine apprising her of the Great Game at every turn. Every movement at the ball, every allowed gasp of air and every elevated eyebrow, would be profoundly dissected by those in attendance.

By the time the party set out for the Winter Palace, she was pleased to have some peace and quiet. She nudged Solas a few times with her knee as he sat nearby in the carriage, trading glances and meaningful looks. He smiled.


	11. Pt.1 - Solas: Disciple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sitting across the bar, staring right at her prey. It’s going well so far, she’s gonna get her way. Nocturnal creatures are not so prudent. The moon’s my teacher and I’m her student.  
> \- “She-Wolf” Shakira

The Winter Palace was set in Orlais in the city of Halamshiral and it was more lavish that Fen’Asha ever could have imagined. It was obscene in edifice and riches and the ball only served to highlight the depravity of greed seeping through the structure.

The place was a sea of masks, leering eyes and painted lips taking in every movement of the Inquisition. Fen’Asha swore she could hear everyone speaking at once in hushed whispers, tiny sneering comments like daggers steeped in thick oil. Whatever the Great Game was, it was unctuous and she loathed it.

Fen’Asha was left to mingle and maintain the Inquisition’s presence at the ball along with her advisors, whereas the rest of the Inquisition was exploring the many secrets of the Winter Palace.

Fen’Asha danced and danced and danced. She exchanged pleasantries, listened to complaints, heeded advice. The nobles seemed to be able to prattle on without much regard for listeners, all too pleased with the sound of their own voices. The Inquisitor endured. The Inquisitor smiled.

Between whispered rumours and idiotic trivialities about how certain people looked and what certain people wore, Sera informed the Inquisitor that reports were surfacing about a massacre of servants in the depths of the Winter Palace. Nobody cared much beyond the sheer chill the butchery put in the air. They were just elves, just servants, after all.

For all the chattering, there was little by way of actual innocence in the Winter Palace. Everyone was conspiring against everyone. Iron Bull brought her evidence against Gaspard. Vivienne brought evidence against the elven spy head Briala. And Cassandra brought evidence against Celene herself.

The entire Palace was plotting something devilish as dresses dallied around well-tailored suits. The Game cost lives, but nobody cared as long as the liquor was good and the food trays were well-stocked.

Fen’Asha felt rising disgust like bile in her throat.

She looked at the banquet table, stuffed to the brim with food nobody had any interest in eating. Some sort of cake with impossible colours stood out and she bit into a piece, letting the inexplicable flavours linger on her tongue before discarding it in a nearby flower pot. She raised her eyebrows. Nobody saw her. She wouldn’t be losing any of her precious brownie points with this silly throng of surreal superiority. Not yet, anyway.

Fen’Asha looked at the discarded cake, thought about what Fen’Harel would think of such a place.

Fen’Harel was a trickster.

Maybe he’d spit in the punch. Maybe he’d take his pants off and run around the fountain. Maybe he’d piss in that fountain, really give the nobles something to think about.

And the evidence against Briala, the Empress, Gaspard; he would handle that, shuffle the deck, make the nobility sweat it out. Fen’Harel would glower at her enemies, strike down her enemies, destroy her enemies. He would make sense of it all.

He would tell her that Briala seemed like a kindred spirit, one who wanted to help the people. She needed power. Fen’Harel would give it to her. Fen’Asha would have to settle for more earthly means.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder. It was Solas.

She barely recognized him. His serene blue eyes watching her, head cocked to the side, he motioned her to follow. She did. He was cool. He set to walking, he set to strutting. If he set to dancing, all eyes would be on him. He brought her to a shadowy alcove in the garden, leaned against a pillar, holding his glass of wine. His eyes gleamed hot, mouth pursed into a controlled grin. He seemed as natural as the ground below.

Without thinking, Fen’Asha took his wine glass and sipped from it. It was oddly bitter, a strong flavour that nearly made her cough in surprise. But she enjoyed the liquid heat that coursed through her body.

Solas nodded.

She nodded back.

“I do adore the heady blend of power, intrigue, danger and sex that permeates these events,” he said. _Sex_. The word rang out, infused with shades of harmony and perversion, serenity and chaos.

Their eyes connected, memories of their last kiss lingered. She breathed. She sipped his wine.

“You seem more at home than I would have expected,” she said.

“I have seen countless such displays in the Fade,” Solas replied. “The powerful are always the same. Only the costumes change.”

He pulled a trinket from his pocket, handed it to her. It was a locket, an elven locket.

“This was stored in Celene’s quarters, in a safe. It is clearly important to her,” Solas said.

“Briala confirmed the rumours of her and Celene’s relationship,” Fen’Asha said, pocketing the locket. “Perhaps there is something here to exploit.” She sipped the wine again. “Have you encountered any trouble with the nobles?”

Solas smirked. “The Orlesians do not know what to make of me. I have kept to myself for fear of giving them some purchase to adhere to.”

She smiled, hypnotized by his lips as they formed around his carefully-chosen words.

“The food and drink are sublime, though,” he continued. “And the servants have been more than happy to refill my glass.”

“I’m glad you’ve found some purchase to adhere to.” She leaned closer to whisper, “These nobles are driving me crazy and their game is absurd.” She leaned back, rolling her eyes. “And all the dancing…”

“I was hoping you’d have an interest in dancing,” Solas said taking back his glass.

“If it’s with you…” she warmed. “I would be delighted.”

He smiled. “Dancing with an elven apostate would win few favours with the court,” he said. “Perhaps once we have completed our business.”

Fen’Asha nodded, “Ah, yes. The Game…the glorious Game I should return to.” She took in their surroundings, the nobles twittering behind their masks, playing their game. She looked back to Solas. Desire warming her, making her bold.

Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps she didn’t care. She threw caution to the wind, didn’t care who saw, didn’t care for the favours. She kissed him in the shadows, softly, swiftly, sweetly. A kiss that could sustain her.

She sighed. She blushed at the sight of heat that flashed in his eyes. “I should speak with Celene,” she said.

Speaking with the Empress revealed the locket to be the tool of manipulation Fen’Asha had suspected it could be. It was a symbol of the romance between the Empress and her elven lover. Celene wanted her to get rid of the trinket. Fen’Asha saw the subterfuge for what it was, knew that there was something between Celene and Briala. Something indeed lingered, something she could exploit.

If there was a way to patch things up between Celene and Briala, that was worth looking into. Surely peace was preferable to open carnage.

Rather than collect herself and take to a plan, Fen’Asha wandered through the faces of the ball. She wondered who was behind the masks. She wondered about the Dread Wolf, wondered about earning his favour in the end. With such a thing, she could tilt the Empire on its ear. She could succeed as the Inquisitor, do what she needed to do.

Fen’Asha turned at the sound of her name. “Welcome to my party, Inquisitor,” a distinguished woman said. She curtsied and announced herself as the Grand Duchess Florianne de Chalons. She had short white hair and wore a mask that covered her eyes and nose.

“Is there something I can do for you, your Grace?” asked Fen’Asha after she half-returned the curtsy.

The Grand Duchess grinned. “Indeed you can,” she said. “I believe we share similar concerns tonight. The actions of…a certain individual have captured our attention. Shall we dance? We can discuss this further at closer proximity.”

Solas’ lessons were paying off, as Fen’Asha glided around the floor with yet another partner. She led the Grand Duchess, keeping her eyes locked on her partner as she swung around between other dancers.

The Grand Duchess pressed the matter, playing the Grand Game against the Grand Inquisitor. She fished for information. She received nothing but grins and polite distractions.

Finally, she gave up her brother Gaspard as the would-be assassin. She presented an opportunity. It was too easy.

The dance ended and the Grand Duchess curtsied again, with Fen’Asha returning the favour. She took her leave and headed for her advisers. Leliana and Josephine gushed about her dancing. Cullen pressed her for what the Grand Duchess had said. Fen’Asha wasn’t buying what Florianne said. The wheels were in motion to cut the bitch off at the knees.

They again assembled a team to investigate with Fen’Asha arguing that her presence was required this time. The Grand Duchess had requested her at the rendezvous point specifically. Her advisors acquiesced reluctantly, and the Inquisitor was finally given some respite from the great game.

The plan carried out. Fen’Asha and her unit had moved through the dark halls Winter Palace and walked right into the opportunity, finding an ambush lay in wait. She grinned at her luck. She grinned because the Grand Duchess liked to talk more than she liked to move.

“You poor deluded thing,” Florianne said, safely above them on a balcony. “You don’t know half of what we have planned and now you never will. You walked right into my trap. I needed you out of the ballroom while I prepared to strike.”

Fen’Asha smirked, advancing on her slowly.

“A pity you’ll miss the rest of the ball, Inquisitor,” continued the Grand Duchess. “They’ll be talking about it for years.” She backed off, waving the archers forward.

Fen’Asha and her crew made quick work of the gang, dodging the first range of arrows and attacking the assassins head-on. It was a simple battle and the archers were laid to waste in a barrage of magic and fire. Fen’Asha looked down at the blood splattering her uniform.

But there was nothing to be done, they rushed back to the Ballroom.

Cullen approached her first, heading her off at the pass. He looked her up and down, noting the blood. “Are you alright?”

She nodded.

“The Empress is set to begin her speech,” he said. “What’s the plan?”

Fen’Asha gritted her teeth. “I’m going to have a word with the Grand Duchess,” she said. She was beginning to like this Great Game.

Fen’Asha stalked across the ballroom and the guests turned to gasp at her appearance, shocking and feral and confident. Empress Celene, Grand Duke Gaspard, Briala, and the Grand Duchess stood in a small cluster and she broke into it with aplomb.

“We owe the court another show, your Grace,” said Fen’Asha.

“Inquisitor…” said Florianne. A frown carved its way across her worn face.

“Remember to smile,” said Fen’Asha as she drew even closer. “The eyes of the room are upon us.”

“But of course,” said the Grand Duchess with another curtsy. “Who would not be delighted to spare you a word?”

“What was it you said?” Fen’Asha said, stalking her prey. “Oh yes. All you needed was to keep me out of the ballroom long enough to strike.” She bit down on the words, strolling forward as the Grand Duchess stepped back.

A dance.

“But when your archers failed to kill me,” she said. “Well, I feared you wouldn’t save me the last dance. And that would be such a pity, wouldn’t it? Especially after all that work.”

“This is all very entertaining, Inquisitor,” said the Grand Duchess. She stepped back in small tight steps as the Inquisitor circled.

“I haven’t even reached the best part,” Fen’Asha smiled. “It was such an ambitious plan. Celene, Gaspard, the Council of Heralds. All under one roof.” She moved ever closer.

“Such an imagination,” breathed Florianne, looking around her. “Surely nobody believes you.” She stepped back, stumbled and faltered in her massive skirts.

“That, I believe, is a matter for the judge to decide,” said Celene. “Dear cousin.”

The Grand Duchess’ eyes widened. “Gaspard?”

Gaspard turned on her and Briala followed, the guard descending down the stairs to Florianne. The Grand Duchess collapsed in defeat, a sobbing pile of feathers and lace.

Once the dust settled and the crying Grand Duchess had been swept away, Fen’Asha approached Celene. It was time to present the details. It was time to decide the fate of the Empire in one foul movement, one sweeping proclamation. As fiery as battle had been and as delicious as trapping Florianne had been, the politics were vile.

Gaspard was a defector. Briala was an ally. It was done. It was quicker than an arrow to the skull.

The Empress was grateful nevertheless, as was Briala.

“You deserve to be happy,” Fen’Asha said.

“We truly are,” Celene said. “Come, stand with us, Inquisitor. We must give the good news to the nobility.”

The Empress stepped to the top of the landing and addressed the congregation, making sweeping motions with her hands. It was all very important, with justice meted out a New Age of Harmony for Orlais. Briala became the Marquise Briala of the Dales and all was well.

“This is not just a victory in Halamshiral or within the empire or even for the elves alone,” Briala said with a flourish. “This is a triumph for all. Over a thousand years ago in the Valarian Fields, elves and humans defeated the Imperium together. We can do so much more now. We are greater than our ancestors ever dreamed. Together, we will save our world from the enemy who took the Divine and tore the sky apart.”

“But that is for tomorrow, tonight, we celebrate our newfound fellowship,” Celene said. “Let the festivities commence!”

The throng cheered dutifully.

Fen’Asha moved through the multitude as they continued in their half-soused revelry. She felt bounced from group to group, shaking hands and bowing and genuflecting until her head was spinning.

Before she gave in to her anxiety, she found respite in the gardens. The air was crisp, untainted by alcohol and deception. There were trees, bushes. It was green, lush.

A lavish fountain presented itself, with cool and clear water gently splashing from its core.

“The Orlesian nobility makes drunken toasts to your victory, yet you are not present to hear them?” came a voice. It was a raven-haired woman and she looked rather ungainly in her elaborate gown, a purple number with too many frills to count. She sat down on the edge of the fountain rather awkwardly, although the expression on her face made it clear that uprightness was still on the agenda.

“Have we met?” said Fen’Asha, sitting next to her. Something about the woman’s discomfort was refreshing.

“I am Lady Morrigan, Empress Celene’s court mage,” she said.

Fen’Asha nodded. “Lovely to meet you, Lady Morrigan.”

“Do you tire so quickly of their adulation, Inquisitor?” continued Morrigan. “’Tis most fickle, after all your efforts on their behalf.”

“I was tempted to stay,” said Fen’Asha. “But the punch ran dry.”

Morrigan laughed and shifted a little, becoming more comfortable. “Indeed? Then let us see if you take this next piece of news with as much good humour.”

Fen’Asha leaned forward. What could possibly happen now?

“By Imperial decree,” she said importantly, “I have been named liaison to the Inquisition. Celene wishes to offer any and all aid, including mine.”

Fen’Asha questioned Morrigan’s motives and found her to be a forward and confident mage. She was sure of her answer before she welcomed her to the Inquisition.

“A most gracious response,” said Morrigan after the job interview had concluded. She bowed upon rising from the fountain and teetered just a little in her high heels. She tilted her head at Fen’Asha, “I know a most useful spell for assuring some dignity after battle.”

Fen’Asha looked down at the dried blood on the red velvet of her uniform.

“If I may,” Morrigan said, not waiting for confirmation. She gave a nearly imperceptible motion and Fen’Asha was renewed, the uniform clean. She even smelled nice.

“Thank you,” Fen’Asha said, looking herself over. “How…”

But the court mage was off.

Fen’Asha relaxed, drifted in thought, peering into the clear water of the fountain. She wondered about the elves, their plight, their future. She wondered about Briala, how she could turn the tide of history if she willed it. She wondered about Sera, even, the cheeky elf disdainful of almost all other elves despite her care and affection for the little people.

And Solas.

These were good elves, despite how the Dalish might feel. She missed her clan, missed her life. But she also was glad for the distance.

“I am not surprised to find you here,” said Solas, interrupting her thoughts. He sat next to her.

“It’s been a long day,” she sighed.

“For everyone, I imagine,” he said. “It is nearly over now. Cullen is providing the marching orders as we speak.”

The sound of music coasted into the garden, overcoming the delicate splashes from the fountain.

“Come,” said Solas, standing. “Before the band stops playing, dance with me.”

“I’d love to,” she said.

Solas bowed and offered his hand. She took it.

 


	12. Pt.1 - Solas: Consummation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're the best way I know to escape the extraordinary. This world ain't for you, and I know for damn sure this world ain't for me. Lift off and say goodbye, just let your fire set me free.  
> \- “Moonshine” Bruno Mars

Solas and Fen’Asha danced throughout the garden, taking the night air under the floral trellises. She felt at home in his arms as they traced their way through the green, the stars above shimmering reminders of the larger world.

“There are spirits hovering by the Veil to observe the thrones of powerful nations,” said Solas. “The machinations, betrayals…I had forgotten how I missed court intrigue.”

“You miss this?” Fen’Asha said. “When were you at court?”

“Never directly, of course,” he said. “An elven apostate is seldom invited to speak with empresses and kings. From the Fade, I have watched dynasties form and empires fall. It is sometimes savage, sometimes noble. Always fascinating.”

Fen’Asha looked at him, feeling admiration and caressing his neck. She pulled him closer.

“Celene should prove a steadfast ally,” he said. “And Briala as well.”

“I hope Briala is able to use her position to help our people.”

“Our people?” Solas said, cocking his head. “Oh, you mean elves. I’m sorry. I do not consider myself to have much in common with the elves.”

“Nor should you,” replied Fen’Asha. “We are not defined by the shape of our ears.”

“I joined the Inquisition to save the world,” he continued with a sigh. “Regardless of who _my people_ are, this was the best way to help.”

Fen’Asha nodded.

“I believe Briala is doing quite well on their behalf,” he said. “She is an admirable woman.”

“And you are an admirable man,” said Fen’Asha. She blushed slightly but committed her hand to stroking his jawline. “Not many people know who they are the way you do.”

“Thank you,” said Solas. “Both for saying that and for seeing that. Few in this world can see _me_ instead of just seeing a pair of pointed ears.”

“I like your ears,” she said. She drifted, looking him over.

He smiled slightly.

“I love everything about you,” she said, pulling him closer for a soft kiss.

Solas pulled her closer still, circling his arms around her and clasping her tightly. The kiss grew deeper, the taste of wine on his lips, his tongue.

She heard voices in the distance and pressed against him further.

The voices solidified into Josephine, who was calling for her.

Solas lifted his head from the embrace, his arms flaccid at her sides.

“ _Garas quenathra sahlin?_ ” muttered Fen’Asha.

Cassandra’s voice followed. She was sure she saw the Inquisitor head for the garden.

Solas angled his head, looking for the source of the voices. Fen’Asha dove deeper within, tracing soft, nipping kisses along his neck and pressing closer.

“We can’t seem to find Varric,” said Cassandra. “Or Solas.”

Solas absorbed Fen’Asha, tugged her closer still. She felt his excitement boiling within, felt his heat rising. Without a word, he was off. He led her through the garden, under more trellises and through passageways and corridors until he found what he was after.

It was a small room with meagre furnishings. There were drapes hanging over chairs and dressers hidden by cloth and cobwebs. It was one of many forgotten rooms in the Winter Palace and Solas closed the door behind them as he led her further in, the moon at the window providing a slight glow.

Fen’Asha cupped his face and kissed him, her heart drubbing.

He pushed her back against a table, hands snaking the stretch of her form as their kisses deepened, heat and tongues entwined. She wrapped her leg around him, clenching him in.

Soon, she felt his weight as he pressed against her. She felt his hardness against her thigh.

She broke their kiss, gasping for breath.

He hoisted her slightly onto the table, pulled her twisted bun down, and tugged the tresses, bringing her lips back to his lips. His fingers went to work, unfastening her collar, exposing her neck for his mouth. He kissed, nibbled, lapped.

She arched her head back, gripped the table. Her willing flesh prickled when he bit her. She squirmed at the feeling, sharp teeth cropping her skin.

He moaned deeply, a robust sound. A growl.

“Dread Wolf, take me,” she groaned before she knew what was said.

He snarled in response, lingering against her flesh before turning her body and pressing her against the table. With her rear to him, he bent her over and surged against her. His resistance nearly melted into the plumpness of her rump. His hands wound to her front, absorbing and rubbing her breasts through the uniform. His hands gripped her hips.

She roiled into him, meeting his force. Encouraging his stiffness. Wanting him.

With an impressive movement, he undid her pants from the front and yanked them down to the top of her thigh-high boots.

Voices huddled on the other side of the wall, a subdued choir of nomadic noise.

She felt his hands hot on her bare skin. She felt alive, sensitive. She tingled where he held, patted, stroked. She whimpered as his fingers entered her, parting her dampness. She pushed back against his extremities, allowing them deeper inside, wanting them further. She churned.

He nudged, exploring her depth, her warmth. His removed slippery, sticky fingers and asserted his hardness, slicking his edge with her moisture. He pulled her back by the hips and entered her fully, a forceful lunge forward.

She bit her finger, stifling a louder cry.

He pushed, filling her with his determination. He paused after a few plunges, seemingly getting his bearings before continuing with measured, lengthy movements. He worked up a rhythm.

She met his thrusts eagerly, pushing back, clutching the table, stirring her hips. She took him wholly when he sped up.

There were more muffled voices outside, more discussion, more people.

She gasped, stifling her cry with her fingers again. She propped against the table, hoping it would sustain the swirl of sensations coursing through her frame as she felt his girth fill her repeatedly, rapidly. Soon she was clenching him, gripping him, enclosing him.

He grunted, each thrust continuing the onslaught of her aroused undulation.

She moaned his name, awash in overwrought sensations. Quivering, gasping, she pushed forward, feeling him withdraw. Feeling him still rigid against her skin. She turned around, sank to her knees in front of him, eyes bright, lips wet with need.

He grunted again as she took him in her waiting mouth.

She could taste herself on his extended flesh. She moved her head back and forth, lips slick along his shaft. She felt his warmth in her mouth, felt his girth.

He ran his fingers through her flaxen tresses, gathering and gripping the silky strands as he guided her pace, as she lapped and sucked. He pulled away when he tightened, mouth contorted in a silent groan.

She shook her head, refusing his exit. She tasted him as he released, lips coiling into a grin as his fluid coated the curves of her mouth.

He grunted yet again, steadying himself on the table.

She peered up at him, licking her lips after she finally permitted his escape from her mouth.

He cupped her face, his fingers outlining her lips. “ _Vhenan_.”

“ _Ar lath ma, Vhenas_ ,” she said.

 

They slipped away from the ball, walking to the inn Josephine had scheduled for the Inquisition. The streets were filled with merrymakers, with laughter and music filling the night air. They strolled hand in hand through a moonlit alleyway, stealing kisses in shadows and alcoves along the way.

They heard footsteps behind them and turned to see a young Orlesian man jogging toward them. He wore red ruffles, tight white pants and had a blue mask with feathers streaming from the sides. He called to the Inquisitor by name.

“You are the Inquisitor, aren’t you?” said the man as he drew closer. “One so rarely sees an authentic Dalish elf in the capital, after all.”

“There are inauthentic Dalish elves?” Fen’Asha said, cocking an eyebrow.

The man was lost rummaging through his bag. “I had just about given up hope, Inquisitor,” he said when he returned to the present. “Professor Tavernier will be so pleased.”

“Okay,” Fen’Asha nodded. “Who are you?”

“Oh,” tittered the man. “I am Gerlent Driyaden. Assistant to the esteemed Professor Senallen Tavernier of the esteemed University of Orlais. You are no doubt familiar with his work?”

Fen’Asha shook her head.

“The Empress commissioned his esteemed research concerning the Dalish elves,” he said.

She shrugged.

He rifled through his bag again and produced a thin book. He beamed as he presented it to Fen’Asha with great flourish.

“What is this?” she asked. The title was _A Treaty on the Pagan and Heretical Customs of the Elven_. She rolled her eyes and looked at Solas.

“Please, if you could spare a moment,” said Driyaden. “We are most curious as to the details of your conversion. It is an inspiration.”

“I’m sorry,” Fen’Asha said, finally brushing past the man.

“What about you?” Driyaden said, nudging his head toward Solas. “You, the manservant. I believe you are known as Solar. Your insight would be invaluable. You have firsthand experience…”

“I could not possibly spare him,” Fen’Asha said.

“Oh,” Driyaden said, frowning. “If you could offer any assistance at all, I would be grateful. Perhaps you could complete this brief survey?” He retrieved a small stack of papers and passed them to Fen’Asha.

She nodded half-heartedly. “I’ll look into it.”

Driyaden turned his frown upside down. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“Solar, if you please,” she said with a brisk nod.

“My Lady,” Solas said, offering her his arm.

“Oh, please forward the survey to the esteemed University of Orlais…care of…”

“Yes, yes.” Fen’Asha and her manservant moved quickly, away from the bouncing Driyaden and his eagerness.

Solas and Fen’Asha eventually reached the door to the inn and she bowed deeply, thanking him for his participation in the evening’s festivities.

He returned the bow and kissed her softly.

“I may have a use for the services of a manservant, you know,” she said with a nudge.

A thwacking sound interrupted the moment.

“One for the Empress,” came a voice on the other side of the door.

Fen’Asha winced. It was Sera. One of her roommates for the night.

There was another thwacking sound and the silver tip of an arrow burst through the wood. “That one’s for Coryphypiss.”

Fen’Asha sighed. “I better take care of this,” she said.

“Goodnight, _Vhenan_ ,” Solas said. He kissed her forehead.

Fen’Asha waited a moment and turned into the room, hoping to avoid any further arrows from the angry elf inside. “Remind me to stay on your good side,” she said when she realized Sera was sitting on the edge of a bed.

“You’re sparkling compared to that lot,” Sera spit. She’d set her bow down already and kicked her boots off. She sighed.

“What’s on your mind?” said Fen’Asha.

“A cook here, a footman there,” said Sera. “What’s the difference as long as the throne’s got an arse?”

Fen’Asha sat on the other bed.

“Sure, it’s a pretty arse,” said Sera. “But so what? There’s lots of pretty arses. How many pretty arses are worth one Empress’ arse?”

“That is a good question,” Fen’Asha agreed.

“Should’ve just thrown bees in and let them rot,” Sera said.

Fen’Asha touched her chin thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” she said. “I think if you want to stop a party, you go earwigs.”

“Ah,” said Sera with a laugh. “Little pinchy butts. I hate those things.”

Fen’Asha grinned.

“Josephine should add that to her paper threats,” Sera said. She plopped back on the bed, looking up at the ceiling.

Fen’Asha did the same.

“You know the real lesson, though?” said Sera. “Never doink an Empress. We patched up their little spat, but without that mess this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Without a doubt,” said Fen’Asha. “They made it a lot worse.”

“It was worse to begin with,” said Sera. “Lots of people died before the hole in the sky.”

Suddenly the door kicked open and Cassandra flew in. “There you are,” she cried. “I was looking all over for you.” She sat in a chair immediately.

“I’m sorry,” Fen’Asha sat up, blushing. “I couldn’t stand it another second.”

“I don’t blame you,” said Cassandra. She undid her uniform.

“Pathetic,” said Sera.

Fen’Asha took off her boots.

“But where _did_ you get to?” Sera said, sitting up as though an idea just struck her. “I was here. Cassandra was looking for you. But you…you _just_ got here.”

“The streets were crowded,” Fen’Asha muttered.

“And Mister Broody,” said Sera. “I heard Mister Broody behind that door.”

“He was showing me to my room,” said Fen’Asha. She looked down, noticing a tiny blotch of dried white on her collar.

Josephine appeared next, face aghast at the arrow through the door. “Who did this?”


	13. Pt.1 - Solas: Harillen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not expecting to collide, for a minute I let my guard down not afraid to be found out. I completely forgot, dear, what our fears were all about. No there's no need to be without. If there's a chance I would take it. This desire I can't kill. Take my heart. Please, don't break it.  
> \- “The Messenger” The Tea Party

The Great Game was soon to be ancient history and Fen’Asha was glad to find herself in the familiar confines of the carriage. She had slept well the night before and was absently flipping through the papers of the not-so-brief survey Driyaden had left with her.

Solas chatted with Cole, while Iron Bull and Varric seemed locked in a conversation of their own.

Fen’Asha put her mind to the survey and produced Professor Tavernier’s pamphlet. She curiously turned the pages of _A Treaty on the Pagan and Heretical Customs of the Elven_ and was surprised by its frankness. The professor knew the subject well and his research seemed methodical enough. Fen’Asha reached a chapter on the “Elven Pantheon” and read carefully.

_The Dalish use "harellan" to mean "traitor to one's kin," but the word does not appear in any elven text before the Towers Age. The ancient root-word is related to "Harillen," or opposition, and "hellathen," or noble struggle. The Dalish call Fen'Harel a god of deception, but I posit a far more accurate translation would be "god of rebellion."_

_What he rebelled against is a story lost to time. In Dalish legends, Fen'Harel seals away the other deities out of love of trickery. If we understood more ancient elven, we might find earlier versions of the Dread Wolf's story give him a more nuanced motivation beyond spite._

God of rebellion. She turned the page, eager for more information pertaining to Fen’Harel. There was nothing. She turned back, reading the same two paragraphs again and again as though new information would present itself. It didn’t happen, but her pulse quickened nevertheless.

Fen’Asha wondered about the nature of Fen’Harel once more and it once again seemed a question without answer. But still, something pulled her. Something warmed her.

She closed her eyes and suddenly the inside of the carriage became hot, humid, moist. It was silent, like all conversations had stopped. She couldn’t even hear the wheels of the carriage as they lurched into the holes and crevices of the dirt pathway.

God of rebellion.

Her heart beat faster still and she bit her finger, trying to halt the feelings of heat overtaking her. She looked around, seeing lips moving but hearing no sound. Varric was talking to Iron Bull. Solas was talking to Cole. Solas was watching her.

She met his eyes and looked down, flushed.

Hot turned to cool as a chill ran up her spine, she clutched the pamphlet and wondered about Professor Tavernier’s research. He was really on to something, wasn’t he? So knowledgeable.

Solas was still watching her when the coolness flooded her whole body. Her skin prickled and she dropped the pamphlet. It didn’t make a sound.

Solas was looking at her and a grin threatened his face.

Cool turned back to hot and small flames licked her skin. She pursed her lips, clutching the bottom of her seat.

Solas was grinning now, but his lips were still moving in his conversation with Cole. She couldn’t hear any words, couldn’t make anything out.

A force of energy rippled through her core, filling her middle with heat. She gripped her seat harder, closed her legs.

“Inquisitor.”

She felt beads of sweat trickle over the curve of her forehead.

“Inquisitor.”

Something was breaking through. Someone was.

It was Varric. “Inquisitor, are you feeling alright? Do you have to…relieve yourself?”

She moaned something, tried to produce a word. She was breathless.

“Perhaps we should stop,” said Solas. “I could use the opportunity for some relief as well.” He shifted in his seat.

Fen’Asha nodded, heat licking between her legs.

Varric knocked on the side of the carriage door, catching the attention of the drivers and bringing the contraption to a clumsy halt.

Fen’Asha left the carriage, wobbly legs barely supporting her. She stumbled into the forest, pushing leaves and branches aside. She gained her bearings slowly and huffed.

What the hell…

The warmth remained, so did the cool. A swirl of feelings circulated her core, merging below and making her moist between the thighs.

Trees parted nearby and there was a sniffing sound, a slow growl, yellow eyes. The forest creatures…

It was Solas and he kissed her without a word.

She wrapped her arms around him, pulled him down to the ground, mounted him in the crush of grass and leaves beneath.

“My apologies,” said Solas. “I couldn’t hold back any longer.”

She began to undo the buttons on her blouse, eyes glistening.

He craned his neck to her, meeting her mouth again.

The road was far enough away to provide cover, yet they still heard the odd shuffling of the horses on the trail.

She ran her hands over his tunic, past the jawbone hung around his neck, reaching underneath to his bare skin. He was cool to the touch, as though the contours of his flesh were fashioned out of smooth stone. She felt his nipples and gasped as he kissed her neck, biting it slightly before trailing a line of kisses down to her chest. She moaned and let her hands slink down his belly, down to the ridge of his trousers.

Solas had worked her top further open and was kissing further down now, planting caresses between her heaving breasts. The black prayer stone arched between them. His breath was hot.

Her hands continued their journey and eventually found him firm to the touch. She kissed him firmly and tugged at his manhood, pulling her hair down and pushing his tunic up to place kisses down his belly and toward his intensifying virility. She circled her tongue around its tender head and he pressed back, hands splaying through the grass beneath as she took his wholeness in her mouth. She worked him for a while, slurping and gathering saliva and slicking it along the length of his stiff shaft.

Solas groaned, his hips nearly jerking before she relinquished her hold on him and raised her head from his midsection.

She smiled at him and raised herself slightly, just enough to pull her pants down. She aligned herself, adjusting his slicked staff and dipping over the swollen nub. She let him fill her and let out a little gasp at the sensation, hurriedly planting her hands on the ground. She pulled grass as she rode him, bucking her hips and working into a harmonized measure.

There was more noise from the road. Some twigs snapped in the forest.

Her breasts bounced as her pace accelerated. Solas searched her form, reaching toward the necklace, gripping her flesh, roaming her curves, down again to rest above her soft lower fur. He thumbed the sensitive bud, she arched back allowing his searching fingers to work their magic.

More heat licking her skin as his hands worked, as his magic worked, as if he had a hundred hands to caress her curvaceous form. He was everywhere, inside and out.

Soon, she climaxed. She gripped him, a deluge of wet hot surrounding him. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, to keep from shouting her ecstasy. She descended upon him, lips meeting again as she lay flat atop his stable form, feeling the full force of her culmination as heat continued to wrinkle through her body.

Solas breathed heavily and gasped as his rigidity slipped from her, settling inflexibly below her opening. He inhaled again as it shuddered once, then again. He exhaled as it released, a sticky surge still resistant to the forces of magic.

They lay for a few moments, then gathered their senses and pulled their clothes back up. She dabbed at his glossy white production, resourcefully using a patch of grass to hide the evidence where possible.

“We must get back,” Solas said, eyes excited.

She nodded and brushed herself off. It would have to do. The grass stains would draw the eye and she began to formulate a story.

When Solas and Fen’Asha returned from the forest, the Inquisition certainly took note.

“There you are,” said Varric. “I was about to send out a search party, but Cole suggested I wait longer.”

“Must have been the ham,” said Iron Bull. “Damn Orlesians and their despair.”

 

The Inquisition continued to its destination, meeting with Stroud and Hawke at the rendezvous point and heading toward Adamant Fortress.

They were met by the Grey Wardens and a demonic force, with a violent battle taking many lives on both sides. When the dust cleared and the magic dispersed, Fen’Asha felt sick to her stomach. Bodies were strewn across the brick and rock of Adamant Fortress, blood pooling into the corners. The smell of burnt flesh wafted through the air.

By the time Fen’Asha, Stroud, Hawke, Solas, Cole, and Cassandra had carved through to the core of Adamant, their worst fears were realized. Erimond stood next to Commander Clarel, encouraging another blood ritual.

“You’re doing exactly what Erimond wants, Clarel,” Fen’Asha shouted.

“Fighting the Blight? Keeping the world safe from darkspawn?” Erimond shouted back, keeping his arm on Clarel’s shoulder all the while.

“We will make the sacrifices no one else will,” said Clarel. “Our warriors will die for a world that will never show gratitude.”

“And your Tevinter ally will bind the mages to Corypheus,” said Stroud.

“Corypheus is dead,” said Clarel. She turned to Erimond.

“They’re trying to shake your confidence,” Erimond said. “Continue.”

“Bring it through,” said Clarel after a moment spent contemplating Erimond’s face.

The Fade rift burst, pregnant with green fire and electricity. The ground groaned protest, but a demon appeared and tore through the veil.

Fen’Asha shouted over the commotion, but the demon was already hurtling toward them.

The situation got worse with the appearance of a corrupted dragon, a great skeletal beast with ragged wings cutting fiery angles of red through the air. Erimond had delivered it personally and he stood in awe of it, eyes glimmering in its ornate blaze.

Fen’Asha recognized the dragon. She hadn’t seen it since Haven, when it flew at Corypheus’ side. When it tore into the buildings with flame, when it damned Haven to destruction.

Suddenly, a discharge of electricity clattered over her head and blasted the dragon in the side.

It was Clarel. The corrupt dragon screeched and the demon below hollered, stomping around the cluster of Grey Wardens and soldiers. Clarel was calling the Grey Wardens to action, instructing what was left of them to stand up to the demon. They followed the orders, while Erimond tore off on a frantic escape.

Fen’Asha was after him, with a rancorous Clarel in tow.

Soon, Erimond was cornered on a decaying brick bridge. The dragon circled and combat rang out from all corners of Adamant Fortress.

“You deserted the Wardens,” shouted Clarel as she pushed him closer to the edge of the brick shelf.

“You did that all by yourself,” Erimond retorted. “All I did was entice you with power and you couldn’t wait to get your hands dirty.”

“You’re a liar,” she shouted. Fury burst from her veins and she cracked him backward.

“You stupid bitch,” he snickered as he tried to stand. “You could’ve served a new god.”

“I will never serve the Blight,” she said coolly.

The corrupt dragon lunged back around, carving through the air and pinching at the soldiers on the brink. It reached for Clarel and snatched her in its mouth briefly before releasing her near Fen’Asha and somersaulting away once again.

“In war, victory,” panted Clarel. She struggled but could not take her feet. Blood dribbled from the corners of her mouth and nostrils.

Fen’Asha tried to support her and hoisted her halfway to her feet, but Clarel stumbled.

“In peace, vigilance,” she rasped.

The dragon orbited yet again, but this time Clarel was ready for it. She bounded forward with the last of her energy, a flash of magic cast right at the abdomen of the beast. The dragon screeched like a wounded bird and buckled, bobbing sidelong before clanking in a pile toward the edge of the bridge. Its gaunt shell swept right into Erimond, who moaned as he sailed below in a shower of scales, magic and brick.

The impact from the crash began to shake the rest of the bridge and Fen’Asha urged herself backward, pulling at Stroud and Hawke to get to safety.

Soon, the ground was gone. Brick gave way to air and they fell.

Fen’Asha’s mind froze. The ground rushed up, stone slabs surrounding them like hailstones. She clutched her fist tight and green lighting erupted from the mark. She closed her eyes.

There was no time.

She opened her hand and everything exploded.


	14. Pt.1 - Solas: Answers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cracked eggs, dead birds scream as they fight for life. I can feel death, can see its beady eyes. All these things into position. All these things we'll one day swallow whole. And fade out again and fade out again.  
> \- "Street Spirit (Fade Out)" Radiohead

Fen’Asha braced herself for the ground, but it never came. Despite plummeting through space for what seemed like ages, she soon found herself sinking upward and floating gingerly to a surging surface. She was suspended and looked down, spotting a rocky base below. She dropped onto it.

She looked around, expecting to find the dragon and feel the fire. There was nothing. Green shimmered in the distance and rock was everywhere, with shards of crystal emerging from shimmering pools of bleak, staring water.

“Where are we?” came a voice. It was Stroud.

“We were falling,” said Hawke. He was above Fen’Asha, defying gravity and common sense. “Are we dead?”

“No,” said Solas. He looked around as he stood next to Fen’Asha. “This is the Fade.”

Fen’Asha nodded slowly, processing the possibility.

“The Inquisitor opened a rift, we came through,” continued Solas. “And we survived.” He stepped around Fen’Asha, peering up and looking off in the distance.

Stroud and Hawke exchanged looks.

“The Black City is so near,” said Solas.

Fen’Asha saw the shadows forming towers and structures, a misty mirage that looked close enough to touch. The air was moving, she was sure of it. She reached toward the flickering expanse, felt nothing between her fingers. She sighed.

“Cole, how does it feel to be home?” Solas said.

“I can’t be here,” Cole exclaimed. He was faltering. “No. No.”

Solas reached for Cole and pulled him to his level, putting a hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright,” he said. “We’ll make it alright.”

“This is wrong,” Cole said. “I made myself forget when I made myself real. But I know it wasn’t like this.”

“This is not how I remember the Fade, either,” said Hawke. “Perhaps it’s because we’re here physically rather than dreaming.”

“Wherever we are, we have to move,” said Stroud. “The rift the demons came through was close. Can we escape that way?”

Fen’Asha nodded. “Sounds like the best option.”

Stroud and Hawke were pulled down to the same level as the rest of the party and they moved on, pushing through the haze of the Fade and focusing on the Breach as it swirled in the distance. The Fade seemed limitless.

“This is fascinating,” said Solas as they passed unsteady formations and broadening bursts of emerald light.

Cassandra moved carefully. “This is dangerous,” she said.

“The Fade is not to be feared,” replied Solas. “It is shaped by intention and emotion. Focus and it will lead us where we want to go.”

A low rumble pushed through the ground below.

“The demon that controls this area is powerful,” said Solas. “Some variety of Fear demon, I presume. Be wary of its manipulations.”

The group continued moving, Fen’Asha and Solas taking in various landmarks of the Fade. Cassandra continued in her vigilant way, while Cole remained near the back with Stroud and Hawke.

The Black City ever lingered above, portentous and lovely at once. It was the seat of the Maker, apparently. If that was the case, where was the Maker? And if the Maker was here, what about the Dread Wolf? He was said to prowl the Fade, after all.

Fen’Asha clutched her stone and prayed for guidance, sending silent pleas to anyone and anything resting in the expanse. A light glistened and she walked toward it, the Inquisition in tow. They reached a woman in Chantry robes, an odd fixture in such a place.

“Could it be…?” Stroud whispered.

The woman stepped forward, face creased by time. Her eyes shone. “I greet you, Warden. And the Champion.” Her voice echoed through the vastness, collecting knots of all-pervading sound.

Cassandra pushed to the front of the group, eyes wide, mouth agape. “Divine Justinia…Most Holy?”

The woman bowed.

“Is this really her?” said Fen’Asha, approaching with care.

“I…am not sure,” said Cassandra.

“I fear the Divine is dead,” said Stroud. “We face a spirit. Or a demon.”

“Here you stand in the Fade yourselves, yet _my_ survival is impossible,” said the woman. “You have little faith, it seems, but we have little time.”

Cassandra looked down, stung by the remarks.

“Surely you understand our hesitation,” said Hawke.

“I am here to help,” said the woman.

Fen’Asha nodded.

“You do not remember what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, do you, Inquisitor?” the woman continued. “Your memories have been stolen by Corypheus. You, like the Grey Wardens, have been terrified into making grave errors.”

“We need to get out of the Fade,” said Fen’Asha. “Can you help us?”

The woman nodded. “The demon took part of you when you entered the Fade at Haven,” she said. “We must recover what was lost. We must make you whole again.”

“How?”

The woman revealed a small green wisp, swaying it to float between them. “You must manipulate this form of energy like you manipulate the Fade rifts,” she said. “Your memories will return in due course.”

Fen’Asha turned to the others and Solas looked to her expectantly. She rubbed her temple. She realized that the woman, whoever she truly was, was speaking the truth. Her memories were out-of-focus, like isolated smog that hinted at things but never hardened into something of substance.

She reached to the green strand, the mark in her hand crunched. She winced and her mind went dark.

* * *

 

She opened her eyes to the Conclave, to the cluster of people and elves and dwarves and others gathered in the spot. She was received with unfamiliarity, even smiles. She wasn’t out of place, a Dalish with marks. She was just another person.

She explored the Conclave, moving down this hallway and that. Listening to murmurings in the rooms. Smelling the food in the kitchen. She clung partially to shadows and realized that there was no hurt in the light.

The next hallway was quiet, until the eruption of a cry cracked the darkness in two.

She ran, bursting through another door and finding a collection of…Grey Wardens. Magic was in the air and terror throbbed the back of her neck. Eyes looked at her. She wasn’t where she was supposed to be. She was in the way. She was an invader. She was…

But there was the Divine, held in dark magic by the Wardens. Wasn’t that what she saw?

Wasn’t that Corypheus? There in the corner, with a globe. An orb. It was glowing in his skeletal fingers, wasn’t it? The energy trailed from the orb to the Divine and back again.

Fen’Asha gasped.

Divine Justinia looked up, looked over, looked to Corypheus. He looked at her, looked at Fen’Asha, looked down as the Divine’s hand burst through the energy and knocked the orb out of his clutches. He shouted and the orb rolled across the floor like a child’s toy.

Fen’Asha clutched it as it rolled to her foot, picking it up.

It seared, blistering into her mind. Pushing into her hand, forcing itself on her.

* * *

 

Fen’Asha was back in the Fade, back with Solas looking questioningly at her, back with the truth about the Conclave. She caught the damned sphere like it was a ball, released from the fingers of a drooling child to waver across the floor through a forest of legs and grasping, hopeless arms. She caught it.

“Corypheus intended to rip open the Veil,” said the woman. Her eyes narrowed. “He wanted to use the anchor to enter the Fade, to throw open the doors of the Black City – not for the old gods but for himself. When you disrupted his plan, the orb bestowed the Anchor on you instead.”

“It was an accident,” Fen’Asha breathed.

The woman stepped forward. “And if it was?”

“Then… neither the Maker nor… I’m just…” Fen’Asha tried to clear her head.

“If you believe in the Maker, you believe he made this world and everything in it,” said the woman. “Even accidents. If that is not your belief, nothing has changed.”

Fen’Asha pursed her lips, “Why are you here?”

“After Haven, I came here,” said the woman. “I hid. I watched. I learned. I searched. And you came.”

“I don’t understand,” said Fen’Asha.

“Corypheus and his nightmares do injustice to the world,” said the woman. “You are meant to stop them. I am here to carry this message.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” said Fen’Asha. She looked at her hand.

The woman shifted, the soft light following her.

“What about this?” Fen’Asha said, showing her the anchor. “What can you tell me about this?”

“It is the needle that pulls the thread,” she said. “It is the key.”

Fen’Asha exhaled.

“It is the needle that passes through the Veil,” said the woman. “You are the thread. It is the key that locks or unlocks a door to the Fade. It lets you walk the Fade and live. Without it, Corypheus must find another way to the Black City.”

Fen’Asha nodded. “What else do you know?”

“It is part of you,” continued the woman. “It cannot be removed without your death.”

Fen’Asha turned her hand around, staring at the simmering green in the middle. It didn’t hurt.

“You still wonder about me,” said the woman.

“Yes,” replied Fen’Asha.

“There are no simple answers,” said the woman. “I am what the Maker made me. Are you what the Maker made you?”

The woman exposed another wisp, guiding it closer to Fen’Asha.

Fen’Asha opened her hand. The mark spat. Her world went dark again.

* * *

 

The light showed her the way. She was running from spiders and the Divine’s hand reached for her, hoping to pull her to the exit of the Fade rift.

The Divine pulled her up, hoisted her with a grunt. Together, they ran for the way out.

The Divine screamed when the spider gnawed into her back, then slashed at her ankles and frayed flesh from her bones.

Fen’Asha pulled on her, hoping to drag her away from the sopping incisors.

The Divine was stuck in the spider’s grasp. She was hauled toward the dark below, skin ripping, mouth knotted in agony.

“Go,” said the Divine. “Leave me.”

“No,” cried Fen’Asha.

“Go,” ordered the Divine. More spiders clattered up the rungs below. They climbed toward the Divine, pinched at lifeless legs.

“No,” shouted Fen’Asha.

The spiders were snarling and the Divine was screaming, growing weaker. Her eyes were closed when Fen’Asha leapt into the Fade rift.

* * *

 

“You,” said Fen’Asha as the woman once again surfaced in the Fade. “It was you sending me from the Fade. Not Andraste.”

“Yes,” nodded the woman.

“I still don’t know what you are,” said Fen’Asha. She stood with her arms crossed.

“You have stories to tell,” said the woman.

“I don’t care about stories,” said Fen’Asha. “I want the truth.”

“This is getting us nowhere,” said Hawke noisily. “We know that the mortal Divine perished at the temple, thanks to the Grey Wardens.”

“This isn’t the time,” said Stroud. “And it’s certainly not the place.”

“It figures,” said Hawke. His eyes were glaring.

“He’s right,” said Fen’Asha. “This isn’t the time.”

“The Grey Wardens are still a risk,” said Cassandra.

Solas nodded. “The Wardens may have served their purpose, but they are dangerous now.”

“What part of ‘this isn’t the time’ do you all not understand?” snapped Fen’Asha. “Please.”

Stroud bowed his head slightly and the rest of the Inquisition drew silent.

“You have recovered yourself, but now it knows you are here. You must hurry,” the woman said, dissipating in a cloud of smoke.

“Was that truly the Most Holy?” Cassandra breathed.

“Perhaps,” said Solas. “Or perhaps it is a spirit that identifies with the Divine and believes it is her.”

Before they could say anything more, a voice crashed through the Fade. “We have a visitor,” it boomed. “A silly girl comes to steal the fear I removed from her shoulders.”

A horde of demons burst from the blackness and attacked the Inquisition. They fought back, the voice crashing through the Fade as they wove their way through smoke and spirit.

“You are a guest in my home,” rumbled the voice. “You think the pain will make you stronger? I grow stronger from your fears.”

Fen’Asha did her best to ignore the taunting, killing one demon after another after another. They exploded into nothingness, eventually vanishing into the darkness around them.

The rigours of battle drove Fen’Asha to seek a rest, so she gripped the side of an immense nearby edifice and took a deep breath. The Inquisition gathered around, speaking softly and still trying to make sense of the Fade. They’d fought demons before by the hundreds, but this place cast a distinctive spell. It was boundless, endless, senseless.

Fen’Asha gasped as she looked down, seeing her hand resting on a great black altar with jagged edges. Blood seeped from various crevices and trickled down, crimson coating her hand. She felt its energy and pulled her hand away. She shook her head and stumbled backward, gawking at it.

Solas supported her from behind, holding her close.

They watched as the blood continued to puddle in the foot of the altar. It began to dribble further, bleeding out of the altar and across the rock below. Fen’Asha gripped Solas tight as the glossy crimson settled into words.

It told the tale of an elf, a Tevinter slave. The altar was his master’s and was known as the Claw of Dumat. The elf’s master had changed and was plagued by fear. His master wanted to be known as Corypheus and Corypheus wanted blood. He wanted the blood of the elven, blood contaminated by the Fade.

The Inquisition watched in amazement as the dark red plaited itself across the rock floor, like gloomy cursive. As it fashioned new phrases, old ones disappeared. The blood dribbled.

The elf tried to save who he could without Corypheus knowing. The ritual called for blood. Corypheus called for blood.

It is almost midnight, the blood wrote. My family is safe. Corypheus can have me, but those I love are safe.

Fen’Asha looked at Solas, who was watching the last of the blood vanish. They looked up at the altar, its serrated edges reaching into the Fade like a talon. Its black crystals seemed intended somehow, like they were designed for something better but had been violated by something horrible. It stood now as it was: a tribute to a god, distorted by dread.

“Come on,” Fen’Asha said.

The voice returned, taunting the Inquisition one by one. It scolded Cole, mocked Cassandra for her faith, terrorized Hawke, prodded Stroud.

It saved a rasping, ancient elven dialect for Solas. Its acid tongue carved through the Fade. Fen’Asha thought she could discern some of the words, “Your pride will be the end of you,” the demon raged. “The end of all.”

“Nothing is inevitable,” said Solas.

The Inquisition was more than happy to move on from the Claw of Dumat. They were even happy to see the woman resurface, a hallucination blooming in forgiving white.

The rift was surprisingly close by now and Fen’Asha spotted it first. She also spotted an enormous spider-like fear demon below it, along with more demons.

“Please,” said the woman. “Get through the rift. Close it with your strength.”

The woman exploded in an array of white and gold, nullifying the spider in the process and carving a path through to the Fade rift. To the way home.

Fen’Asha and the Inquisition battled their way through the next cluster of demons, exhaustion setting in and making it harder to raise weapons and cast spells.

Fen’Asha would have to cross the Fade rift last. She would have to close it.

Without warning, the great fear demon reappeared and snapped at her heels. She’d seen most of the others through the rift already, but Stroud and Hawke remained. They faced down the scowling demon, staring at each other as though having a wordless conversation.

“Clear a path,” Stroud shouted. “She has to close this cursed thing.”

“Go through,” said Hawke. “I’ll distract this piece of shit.”

“No,” said Stroud. “The Wardens caused this. A Warden must fix this.”

“There’s no time,” shouted Fen’Asha. “Please.”

Stroud surged from view, leaping at the demon with one final look back at Hawke.

Fen’Asha and Hawke used the opening without hesitation, with Hawke passing through the Fade rift first. Fen’Asha sealed the Fade rift with an explosion of energy and purpose, closing the door on the demons and mysteries on the other side of existence. She’d seen her fill. She was exhausted and perplexed.

The battle had raged on without her and the soldiers were weary too, weary of bloodshed and violence and magic.

A soldier rushed her way. “Inquisitor,” he said. “The archdemon flew away when you disappeared. The Venatori magister was taken alive. The Wardens helped fight off the demons.”

Fen’Asha sighed and held up her hand. The noise was invasive. She couldn’t hear herself think.

“We stand ready to make up for Clarel’s tragic mistake,” said a bearded Grey Warden. He looked at Hawke and around at the crew that had escaped the Fade. “Where is Stroud?”

“Stroud died heroically,” said Fen’Asha. “We will honour his sacrifice.”

“But we have no one left of significant rank,” said the Grey Warden. “What do we do?”

“You leave,” said Fen’Asha brusquely. “You’re too vulnerable to Corypheus. We’ve already lost too many…”

“I…” sputtered the Warden.

“By the authority of the Inquisition, the Grey Wardens are banished from southern Thedas,” said Fen’Asha. She walked away.

Blackwall approached noisily, walking alongside the Inquisitor. “Your worship,” he said bitterly. “Am I to stay? Will you allow it?”

Fen’Asha nodded without looking at him. “I never doubted your loyalty.”

Blackwall nodded and moved on.

The Inquisition was eager to return to Skyhold, eager to leave behind the death and dread of Adamant. Fen’Asha’s hatred of Corypheus grew even more with what she’d seen in the Fade. The corruption of the Wardens was a major blow, but it proved how susceptible everyone could be to the lure of power and the promise of quick solutions.

Talk fell to what people should believe, what people wanted to believe. The events at Adamant had solidified the Inquisition as a force with divine consequences.

 

The carriages rattled on their way to Skyhold and Fen’Asha looked at her travel companions. They were a tired bunch.

Varric mourned for Stroud but was relieved at Hawke’s survival.

Cassandra sat next to Varric, occasionally peered down at what he was writing before borrowing some papers for herself. The Seeker set to work, following the dwarf’s example, wanting to document the truth, or what could be discerned as the truth, of their fall into the Fade.

As for Cole, seeing spirits bound as a demon army terrified him. He hounded Solas for a binding which the bald elf refused to do. But his rebuttals were meaningless until Fen’Asha intervened. She had to promise Inquisition resources towards finding the protective amulet Solas spoke of before Cole would settle. Nevertheless Cole remained still in petrified silence.

Fen’Asha held Solas’ hand and sat quietly, listening to the rattle of the carriage wheels as they bounded along in the dirt.

She thought of the anchor, how it was supposed to be a key to a door. She had more questions than answers now.

It was the needle and she was the thread. It was the key to a door. What door? The Black City itself?

The orb, the foci, was supposedly able to unlock the Black City according to Corypheus. Some orbs were dedicated to gods in the elven pantheon, Solas had said once. Whose power was this? Such dreadfully amazing power. The fabric of reality was susceptible to its will.

She watched the green glow. Could it be what drew the Dread Wolf’s gaze? His power in her hand?

“You look troubled, _Vhenan_ ,” said Solas.

She was watching the glow. “I wish I had some answers,” she sighed.

“You have brought peace to Orlais and dealt a blow to Corypheus,” he said. “You have taken his army.”

“I didn’t do it alone,” she replied.

“No,” said Solas. “But you are due your credit.”

“We don’t know enough about Corypheus,” she sighed. “How does he survive? How does he control the dragon? How did he get the orb? How…”

Solas pulled her closer. “I would never have guessed that a Tevinter mage could unlock such a relic,” he said. “It clearly enhanced his abilities, giving him access to power he should have never known.”

She thought of her anchor again, held it up a little. “You think it lets him control the dragon?”

“Maybe,” he said. “I believe his true advantage is red lyrium. It is corrupted by the Blight, as he is. That is what makes him most dangerous now.”

Fen’Asha sighed and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Corypheus has lost his demon army and he’s lost Orlais,” Solas continued. “He can’t rebuild Tevinter. He will need to make a point and it will not be subtle.”

“What point?” she sighed.

“That no one can stand against him.”

She nodded.

“But his deception will be his undoing,” said Solas. “It has happened to countless fools before him. He hasn’t realized his fatal error.”

“And what’s that?”

“No god has to prove itself,” said Solas.


	15. Pt.1 - Solas: Fur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How you move me. How you move me to love you. I keep choosing to love you again every morning. Lover, find me underneath the covers. We will stay here until we discover all that we have to give to each other. Till forever.  
> \- “Till Forever” Joy Williams

The Inquisition returned to Skyhold and some sense of routine, to their corners, to their lives.

Fen’Asha found herself caught between Josephine and a Chantry sister. The Chantry wanted Leliana and Cassandra to attend to the business of selecting a new Divine, especially with the two of them considered candidates for the honour. Josephine was arguing that they could not spare such critical members of the Inquisition. Fen’Asha agreed.

Fen’Asha also attended to business with Vivienne, where she began her training as Knight Enchanter.

And she encountered Morrigan in the gardens, but not before facing a small boy who stared at her curiously in the lush green.

“Mother never told me the Inquisitor was an elf,” he said.

“I bet the ears gave me away,” she replied.

“No,” said the boy. “It’s your blood. It’s very old.”

Fen’Asha raised her eyebrows and was about to answer when she saw Morrigan approaching.

“Kieran,” said the witch. “Are you bothering the Inquisitor?”

He shook his head. “Did you see what she has on her hand, mother?”

“I did,” she nodded. “I think it’s time to return to your studies, little man.”

He frowned but obediently walked off, his mother grinning slightly.

“He seems like a fine young man,” Fen’Asha said.

“Yet he’s never where you expect him to be, naturally,” sighed Morrigan.

Fen’Asha shrugged.

Morrigan looked around the garden, nodding. “To think,” she said. “Until recently, this place stood decrepit and occupied by the desperate and the lost. And now, it stands a party to events that threaten the very world. I wonder if it is pleased.”

“You’re familiar with Skyhold?” asked Fen’Asha.

Morrigan stepped forward, peering up at the towers. “This fortress was built on the remains of a site holy to ancient elves,” she said. “They called it Tarasyl’an, the place where the sky is kept.”

Fen’Asha followed Morrigan’s gaze to the towers.

“Soon, they abandoned it,” continued Morrigan. “And the humans who came after did so as well. Bones lay upon bones until you came. Some say the magic has seeped into the very stones. Most agree that those who let it fall to ruin did not know what they possessed. You, I believe, shall do it justice.”

“I feel its magic,” said Fen’Asha.

Morrigan nodded. “You were kind to welcome my aid,” she said. “I shall do my best.”

“Any help you can offer us will be greatly appreciated, Lady Morrigan,” said Fen’Asha.

 

The next task was to meet with the arcanist. She was in the basement of Skyhold, in the Undercroft with the blacksmith Harritt and his equipment.

He pointed to the way toward Dagna with a sigh and Fen’Asha followed his motions, locating the small dwarf with gleaming eyes.

“Inquisitor,” said Dagna. “Wonderful to see you.” She was beaming.

“Hello Dagna,” said Fen’Asha.

The dwarf tittered. “You were there. Actually there.”

Fen’Asha raised an eyebrow.

Dagna shuffled back and forth. “You were in the Fade. Actually in the Fade.”

“It wasn’t intentional,” said Fen’Asha.

“Well, it’s certainly fascinating,” said Dagna. “It’s all such a wonder. I can’t even imagine. Or dream. Well, obviously. But…you’re here. And you were there.”

“Yes,” said Fen’Asha. She tilted her head, curious.

“Can I take a sample?” blurted Dagna. “That sounds wrong. I….can I slice something off and do things to it?”

Fen’Asha looked agape, took a few steps back.

“I mean…” Dagna said stepping towards the Inquisitor. “I mean. There’s just so much to consider. I want to know more. Your people cleaned you up when you returned, there was nothing to…do things to.”

Fen’Asha nodded. “I understand. You’ll have what you need. I’m rather interested what you might come up with.”

Dagna smiled, “Thank you.”

 

The day swept past in a haze of rulings, consultations and conversations. Fen’Asha was exhausted and was set to rest when Josephine pulled her aside for one final matter.

“We have word from your clan,” she said.

Fen’Asha turned to face her, leaning against her desk.

“The bandit attacks have ceased, but we have found troubling motivations,” she said. “There is a plague affecting the humans of Wycome. It’s known as the Knife-Eared Plague and Duke Antonie wants to use your clan as the scapegoat. He believes himself to be one of our allies, so we could use our ambassadors to contend with this matter.”

Fen’Asha nodded. “Go ahead,” she said.

“Also, your Keeper sent a package,” said Josephine.

Fen’Asha took the parcel and unwrapped it in her quarters, peeling the delicate paper aside. Inside was black fur, fluffy and silky to the touch. She bit her lip, feeling its familiarity against her cheek. She held it aloft, spun like a child. She nuzzled it.

It was her beloved wolf pelt.

A note was tucked inside, along with a ring.

_Da’len,_

_You have our gratitude for your timely assistance in our plight. I had kept your belongings for the time you would return, but much was lost while we fled the bandits._

_I just can’t see you wandering the world without the Wolf wrapped around you. And the ring you were to receive once made Keeper. But the world is in turmoil and only the gods know when or if you will return to us._

_You are blossoming into the leader I always knew you could be. You make an old elf proud. Your Father would be proud too. He always was._

_Mythal guide your steps._

_Dareth shiral,_

_Keeper Istimaethoriel Lavellen_

Fen’Asha warmed at the mention of her father, but what of her mother?

She thumbed the sylvanwood ring and looked over the carvings, finding a small wolf that represented Fen’Harel chasing away the gods. As she turned the ring, the scene evolved. The gods chased Fen’Harel. He chased them back.

 _Mythal guide your steps_.

Fen’Asha had prayed to Mythal, asked for direction, asked for light. Nothing happened.

But Fen’Harel, for all the trickery, was watching. Always watching.

She couldn’t dare tell the Keeper, the Keeper who insisted she turn to Mythal for guidance when the darkness fell. And her mother, too, whose faith in Mythal rarely faltered.

Fen’Asha put the ring on and tucked the note into a safe place, letting her hair down and dressing for bed. She smoothed the wolf pelt out on the bed, caressing it. She felt warm. She felt curiosity. She wondered what Solas would look like in her pelt, what his smooth skin would feel like against it.

She grew hungry for what fueled her desires.

 

Solas was in his room under the library, as usual. He was painting, finishing the bottom of Empress Celene’s blue gown with a meticulous diamond pattern.

Fen’Asha sighed. “It’s lovely,” she said.

“ _Ma serannas_ ,” he said. He continued with his work.

She made a sound in affirmation, watched him work, licked her lips.

“Cassandra tells me you have begun your training with the Knight Enchanters,” he said.

“Yes, I hope to make them proud.”

“So much knowledge has been lost,” he said. “They believed that knowledge would lead them to victory. In elven, the Knight Enchanters were known as _dirth’ena ensalin_. Mages eschewed physical confrontation…”

Fen’Asha nodded and realized Solas hadn’t yet looked at her, so she took a few steps closer.

“The Knight Enchanters were elite guardsmen, as I understand,” he said. “There is no doubting their honour.” Solas looked up at his work and nodded.

“No, certainly not,” she said. She drew closer.

He began to pack up his supplies, washing out the brush in a nearby flask of water and drying it before tucking it into his pack.

“They were the living embodiment of will made manifest,” he said finally looking to her. “Mind shaping the body into…into the perfect weapon.”

“The perfect weapon?” breathed Fen’Asha.

“A skill that comes naturally to you,” said Solas. He stepped closer to her.

She sketched her finger along his forearm. “Perhaps I could show you some of my techniques.”

 

She led him up the tower steps, recalling their time together in the forest. She remembered the feel of the earth beneath, the smell of the green grass, the sounds from the road nearby. She bit her lip, drawing herself back to the present. They entered her quarters, finding it immersed in the light of the moon.

It bathed them in luminescence as they caressed each other eagerly, Solas’ lips trailing down the softness of her neck. He pulled her fair tresses back, exposing more skin to his mouth. He drew her robe from her shoulder, nibbling at the curves as he worked his way over her form.

She exhaled as he let her robe slip to the floor, exposing her luscious figure to the moonlight. Her flesh prickled as his gaze wandered her curves. She breathed his name, eager to see him and feel him. She led him back to her bed, to where the wolf pelt lay.

She sank onto it, pulling Solas down on top of her. She felt his kisses, smelled his musk. The black jawbone pressed cold on her bare skin. She pulled it and his tunic off, revealed more of his skin to the lingering white peering into the window from above.

He grew hard as her legs wrapped around his waist, sinking him into her tangle of hair and flesh. He groaned as he felt her groping for him, longing for his increasing stiffness.

“Please,” she sighed. She was breathing heavily, hands tracing the contours of his skin.

He was gazing at her hungrily, watching as she writhed to his touch. He pulled her smallclothes off, letting them fall to the floor by the bedside. He kissed her harder than before, tongue prodding the corners of her mouth as his fingers slithered from her belly to below.

She lifted her hips to meet his searching fingers, feeling them as they slipped inside her. She moaned, as his kisses descended, between her breasts, past the prayer stone. She wanted to cry his name at the top of her lungs, wanted to let the fire sing out from within.

He caressed her legs with his other hand, dipping below to plant kisses on her thighs and calves. His fingers worked in rhythm, plunging in and out, soaking up her stickiness as his mouth lingered over smooth skin.

She writhed, pulling at the corners of the wolf pelt. It was too much. The sensations were unreal, celestial. The stars watched.

When he lapped at her moistness, she cried out his name at full volume. It was a wonder the guards didn’t come running.

She felt his tongue searching her folds, prodding inside a little and licking at her gathering nectar. She felt his head, smooth and round between her legs. She felt the smoothness underneath, the pelt gathering around her as she squirmed on the bed. She felt the pelt warm to her touch, felt it grasp at her.

He bent up to kiss her, letting her savour her own essence as his fingers returned to their work. He opened his trousers, releasing the kiss and bending over her.

She cried out again when he entered her, abundant resistance pressing at her internal walls. She moaned and churned in the fur as he worked harder, pumping into a rigorous rhythm. She heard his skin cuff against hers, their bodies colliding in a pulsing eruption of ecstasy.

He continued his thrusts, nearly growling as he pushed into her and released his length before pushing in again.

The pelt surrounded her, engulfing her in blackness. The fur, the eyes, the moon, the teeth, the growling insistence. She cried out, louder than ever, and a flood of passion detonated into the night air. Her muscles tensed, then relaxed as she heaped back against the pelt. She felt his entry again and again, capitulating finally to his eruption as he hunched back and tightened his arms.

He snarled as he arrived.

They lay with each other in the pelt, feeling the succulence of their efforts in the dark coat. They breathed heavily, stomachs and chests heaving with effort.

 

They disentangled themselves after a spell, found the warmth under the covers. Fen’Asha cuddled up to Solas, savoring the contact of their bare skin. She pulled the wolf pelt up to cover them, ran her fingers through the fur.

“When I was young, I wanted to be like the hunters,” she said. “I would sneak off and watch.”

Solas smiled, played with her pale honeyed locks.

“I couldn’t wait to be like them,” she continued. “One night, I stole my father’s bow. I was going to get my first kill, come back a hero. I was going to be a hunter.”

Solas nodded. “Yes,” he breathed. “It is a symbol of the hunter’s skill to protect the clan from the Dread Wolf. The hunter is very important.”

She nodded. “I found a wolf pack and watched them,” she said. “They were so beautiful, playing in the light of the moon. I couldn’t imagine taking their lives. They left my sight, in part because they were faster than I was and in part because I couldn’t bring myself to raise the bow.”

Solas touched the wolf pelt, rubbing the fur.

“And then I came upon the mother,” she said. “Lost in daydreams, I stumbled on the den. She was going to protect her pups, no matter what. Our eyes met. I did all I could not to run. I closed my eyes, let my arrow fly.”

Solas stiffened, shoulders tightening. He gazed at Fen’Asha.

“Something or someone had guided my arrow,” she said. “I shot her in the eye.” She pet the wolf’s head.

“You regret it,” Solas said.

“Those pups,” Fen’Asha sighed. “I ran home in tears. They were so small, so clumsy. I told my father everything, how I’d stolen his bow and killed the wolf mother.”

Solas nodded.

“He wasn’t angry,” she said. “But we had to make it right. I took him to the den and he took the pelt. This pelt.” She rubbed the head gingerly. “He taught me to assist the pack in her stead. Make amends.”

“Your father has the heart of the people,” said Solas. He joined her in stroking the wolf’s head.

“Yes,” Fen’Asha said.

“He taught you well,” he said, his hand stilled over hers.

“I want you to have it,” said Fen’Asha, entwining her fingers in his.

Solas raised an eyebrow.

She nuzzled against him. “You mean so much to me, Solas.”

He gazed at her, eyes searching.

“Please,” she whispered. “Take it.”

He kissed her gently. “ _Ma serannas_ ,” he breathed. “Wolves are such majestic creatures. Only small-minded fools see them as terrible beasts.”

She felt her prayer stone heavy around her neck.


	16. Pt.1 - Solas: Respite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone tell me how I feel. Its silly wrong, but vivid right. Kiss me like a final meal. Kiss me like we die tonight. 'Cause holy cow, I love your eyes. And only now I see the light. Lying with you half awake. Stumbling over what to say. Anyway, it's looking like a beautiful day.  
> \- “One Day Like This” Elbow

The sun licked the contours of Fen’Asha’s room, warming it in spite of the snow outside.

She lay with her memories of the night before, noticing Solas’ lithe form still slumbering in the bed beside her. It wasn’t some sort of cruel cosmic vision after all. She studied his face, his full lips, his eyelids, the contours of his nose. Was he walking in the Fade?

The door creaked its greeting and the chambermaid entered with her bucket of supplies. She trudged up the stairs, her stout figure lingering on each step for a moment as though she was polishing the rough banister with one of her ratty towels. Soon, her head peered up over the upper railing and her big eyes widened.

“Oh,” she sputtered.

“Oh,” Fen’Asha murmured as she rolled to face the maid.

“I have your clothes pressed and…” the maid was sputtering. She looked at Fen’Asha, looked at Solas, looked at the pelt, the wrinkled sheets, the clothes on the floor. She blushed.

“Oh,” Fen’Asha repeated.

“Excuse me,” said the chambermaid. She backed down the stairs, her massive head dipping as she went. She was in no great hurry.

Solas stirred.

“Your bath is ready,” said the maid quickly before the door thumped shut.

Fen’Asha looked into the light of the sun as it peered back at her.

She embraced him, laying on his chest.

He stroked her hair.

“Morning came too early,” she grumbled. She closed her eyes, cherishing his scent, his skin, his touch. “You know…” she said trailing the line of his abdomen. “I was supposed to show you _my_ techniques.”

“Forgive me, _Vhenan_ ,” he chuckled. “I lose myself with you,” His hand caressed the curves of her figure. “There is much I can…”

She sat up quickly, “No. It’s my turn.”

He smiled, eyes settling on the exposed fullness of her breast. “ _Ma nuvenin_ , Inquisitor. As you will.”

Fen’Asha brightened and licked her lips. “The bath is ready.”

 

After an extensively stimulating wash, Fen’Asha proceeded to convince her fellow mage to join her for lunch in the tavern. It was an easy sell and they settled in at the wooden table, chatting about what was to come.

Sera sat beside her, a mess of blonde hair and frustration. “You just missed Vivienne,” she said. “You missed your lessons.” She waved a finger.

Fen’Asha pulled a rather large sausage off the generous plate in front of her.

“In fact,” said Sera. “Where the hell have you two been all morning?”

“Studying,” said Fen’Asha.

“Sure,” laughed Sera. “Studying the far points of the galaxy, I bet.”

“It is none of your business,” said Solas.

“Easy, droopy,” said Sera. “The elf always takes the elf anyway. Big surprise.”

“This is not a subject for discussion,” said Solas.

Fen’Asha bit the end of her sausage.

“Please,” said Sera. “Like I’m interested in the two of you figurin’ out new shit to do with your pointy bits.”

Solas frowned. “You have no tact, do you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Sera. She belched. “I’m made of tact, innit.”

Varric pulled into the station and sat, with Blackwall behind him. The Grey Warden clasped Solas on the shoulder.

“Don’t usually see you around these parts,” said Varric as he tucked into a biscuit.

Solas nodded politely.

Sera peered at Fen’Asha’s sausage, or what was left of it, and distracted the Inquisitor with a point toward the kitchen and away from her ale. The rogue made use of the diversion and polished off the beer, but not before Fen’Asha tore off the end of the sausage and made a mock gesture of menace.

“Must you disturb everyone,” said Solas.

“Oh please,” said Sera, wiping ale from the corners of her mouth. “Your knickers are in a twist. If they’re even on.”

Fen’Asha nearly choked on the sausage.

“Something’s happening here,” said Varric as he took a bite of biscuit.

“Nope, nothing,” said Fen’Asha. She flagged down the barmaid for another ale.

“You haven’t heard the rumours?” said Sera. She pointed toward Fen’Asha and Solas with her thumb.

“Everyone knows that,” said Varric.

“The Inquisitor and Solas?” said Blackwall with a raised eyebrow. “Here I thought it was…”

“You didn’t know?” said Sera, practically leaping to her feet.

“I thought it was…Varric.” He looked down, truly disappointed.

Varric choked on his biscuit. “Now why on earth would you think that?” he spluttered when the crumbs cleared.

“No reason,” said Sera with a whistle.

Solas studied the rogue, narrowing his eyes. His ears were twitching.

“Buttercup, what did you do?” said Varric, brushing crumbs from his shirt.

“Nothing,” said Sera. “Okay, not nothing. But not something either. Just, nothing.”

Fen’Asha looked at her friend, eyes wide.

Sera looked down toward the Inquisitor’s chest. “Okay,” she said. “Okay. So you remember the drawing? The one of your, uh, bits and bobs?”

Varric chuckled. “Oh, for crying out loud.”

“Well, it’s made the rounds,” said Sera. “In a way.”

“What do you mean ‘in a way,’ Sera?” asked Fen’Asha as her ale arrived.

“I mean, people’ve seen it. Them. People’ve seen them. Both of them. All of them. In drawing form, I mean. I hope.” Sera chortled uncertainly.

“People saw the drawing?” said Fen’Asha. “How many people?”

“Few dozen,” said Sera. “Few dozen hundred. Something.”

Fen’Asha stared straight ahead.

Solas stirred finally, reaching for a biscuit and examining it.

Sera kept giggling. “Anyway, Varric’s big oaf head was in there too. Must’ve made the connection somehow. You know people.”

“Yes,” said Fen’Asha. “And now _people_ know me.”

“Think of it as good for morale,” said Sera. She pointed toward the kitchen again in hopes of sneaking off with another sip of ale, but the Inquisitor was having none of it.

“You and the Inquisitor, then?” said Blackwall, taking in Solas.

Solas nodded. “I do suppose, yes. Does that surprise you?”

“No, no,” said Blackwall. “Yes.”

“I hardly find it surprising,” said Solas. “I have eyes with which to see, after all.”

“And ears with which to bugger off,” said Sera. She tried the pointing thing again, failing to recognize its utter futility.

“People should seize any chance they have for respite and pleasure in times such as these,” said Solas.

“So let me get this straight,” said Varric. “People think I’m with the Inquisitor?”

Sera nodded.

“This could work perfectly,” said Varric.

Solas raised an eyebrow. “Varric, I’m not into…”

“No, no,” said Varric, waving an arm. “I have a friend arriving. If she were under the impression that I was otherwise occupied…oh, that’s perfect.”

“A friend?” said Fen’Asha.

“Bianca,” said Varric.

The table burst into questions.

“Yes, Bianca,” answered Varric to all of them. “The Bianca.”

The conversation blurred for a while before Sera and Blackwall conspired to approach Solas with a question that’d been nagging them for at least five excruciating minutes.

Solas pursed his lips as Blackwall prepared himself.

“Sorry,” said Blackwall. “But, if you make friends with spirits in the Fade, do you ever…I guess…further the relationship?”

“Excuse me?” said Solas.

“It’s just a curiosity of mine,” said Blackwall. “Of ours. More hers, really.” He jabbed Sera, who was laughing hysterically.

“I won’t even dignify that,” said Solas. He crossed his arms.

“You never know,” said Sera. “Inquisitor doesn’t need some green-eyed demon tracking her down, after all. Could get messy.”

“So that’s a no,” said Blackwall. His interest had eclipsed the course of conversation.

“It’s not so simple,” said Solas.

“So you have?” said Blackwall.

“I did not say that,” said Solas.

Fen’Asha leaned forward.

“It’s okay,” said Blackwall. “I’ll use my imagination when I return to my quarters. I mean…”

Sera exploded in laughter, tumbling backward from her stool and distracting the group for a while. One by one, they made their way from the lunch table and off to other business. It felt good to connect and Fen’Asha was glad Solas was around. She watched him. He was still stewing, but it was gentle fun. It had to be.

“That does sound interesting,” she said absently.

“What does?”

“Making friends in the Fade,” she said. “Special friends.”

“It’s not like that, _Vhenan_ ,” he said.

“You sure?” said Fen’Asha. “Maybe there’s something you could show me?” She bit her lip.

“Maybe,” said Solas. He raised an eyebrow.

 

Fen’Asha went about the rest of her day, set to make up for neglecting her duties in the morning. It had been worth it, without question.

She found Madame Vivienne at the balcony above the main entrance, as usual. “My dear, I do hope you don’t plan on creating a habit out of wasting my time,” she said as Fen’Asha approached. “I waited here for the entire morning.”

“I’m sorry,” said Fen’Asha. “I lost track of time.”

“May I remind you that our lessons are at your request,” said Vivienne. “This is not for my benefit.”

Fen’Asha nodded.

“Let’s try this again,” said Vivienne. “I do hope you’ve seen the error of your ways.”

Fen’Asha nodded again.

“And darling, is it my imagination or have you and our Solas been exchanging some rather lingering looks?” Vivienne raised an eyebrow.

Fen’Asha flushed with memories of her morning, memories of slick skin, tangled embraces and warm soapy water.

“How charming,” said Vivienne. “I do suppose some levity is in order. After all, I would be quite the hypocrite to deny the flowering of young love given how many appointments I missed when Bastien and I found ourselves sharing affections.”

Fen’Asha must’ve turned another shade of pink because Vivienne laughed.

“There’s no need for embarrassment, my dear,” said the Grand Enchanter. “It is lovely that the world fade away in the arms of your lover, if even for a few moments.”

Fen’Asha nodded. She wanted to thank Vivienne for her understanding, but the words caught in her throat.

Vivienne took a few steps closer. “But you do have a taste for the mysterious, don’t you? I must admit to not knowing quite what to make of our Solas. So much knowledge, so little history. Don’t you find that peculiar?”

The Inquisitor leaned on the banister. Solas was certainly mysterious. He spoke in fragments of time and she really didn’t know much about him, at least in terms of anything “personal.”

“But I am positive he has shared more with you than I,” said Vivienne.

“Of course,” said Fen’Asha.

“I shall keep you no longer, dear,” said Vivienne. “Duties call, no?”

“I won’t be late next time,” said Fen’Asha as she swept away.

 

Fen’Asha found Leliana in the tower amongst the fragrance of crow dander. The spymaster was kneeing before her altar, offering silent prayers to her Maker.

Fen’Asha cleared her throat after watching for a while.

“Inquisitor,” said Leliana, rising to her feet. “The amulet you requested for Cole has arrived.” She passed over the necklace.

Fen’Asha pocketed the amulet with a nod. “Any news of Corypheus?”

“His people have been ransacking elven ruins since Haven,” Leliana said. She looked out the window. “I believe he seeks more, but we aren’t sure exactly what that is. We do have a lead on red lyrium. It’s coming from Emprise du Lion.”

“Elgar’nan’s nuts,” Fen’Asha said under her breath. She sighed.

Leliana smirked.

“What about the orb Corypheus carries?” said Fen’Asha. “Do we have more information?”

“None.” Leliana shook her head. “Other than the fact that it’s an incredibly ancient artifact.”

“I need to know more,” said Fen’Asha.

“Of course,” Leliana said.

“Perhaps there is something to be found about the ancient elves,” said Fen’Asha. “Their gods, perhaps. Maybe…Fen’Harel, an elven god said to still walk the Fade.” She warmed.

“That is a clever thought,” said Leliana. “I’ll look into it and report back to you.”

Fen’Asha turned to leave, spying the eyes of the crows on her. Were they looking at her black stone with their black eyes?

She clutched it, wondering where the Dread Wolf was now. She absently drummed her fingers on the rail and spotted Solas below. She smiled down on him and the notion struck her like a bolt from the blue.

It was time to see Cole.


	17. Pt.1 - Solas: Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby, put your arms around me, tell me I'm a problem. Know I'm not the girl you thought you knew and that you wanted. Underneath the pretty face is something complicated. I come with a side of trouble but I know that's why you're staying. Because you're no angel either, baby.  
> \- “No Angel” Beyoncé

Cole was standing, rocking really, in the corner of the tavern’s upper floor. “Shite,” he muttered. “He’s wrong. Dead-eyed crazy. Shite. I called him a him. Is he even alive? I hate raisins.”

Fen’Asha approached slowly, hoping to meet his gaze so as to not scare the living daylights out of the poor kid. She waved a hand in front of his face, drawing his eyes. He was there.

Cole smiled slightly.

“How does that work? Your mind…?” Fen’Asha said.

“It works,” said Cole.

“You see things differently,” said Fen’Asha. “It must be difficult.”

“It is,” said Cole. “Sometimes.”

“What do you hear, Cole?”

“They remember me,” he said. His eyes lifted off again. “Their eyes stick, some more. They want me to be. Varric is quiet inside, pulls me more to _here_. Makes me a person, calls me kid. A friend. Solas. Bright and sad. Observes. Accepts. Sees the soul, spirit self. Somehow, there is sorrow.”

“Sorrow,” Fen’Asha whispered.

“Wisdom knows enduring is pain,” said Cole. “He hurts for her, another of many he could not save. He carries unnecessary deaths.”

“How do you know this, Cole?”

“I start by listening,” said Cole. “I hear hurt. Sometimes solutions are found by giving something. Food, a blanket, sleep. Some are less clear. Terrible tangles, catching on a crack. Fixed, festering. The person makes a pearl of pain and I shake it loose. No pearl, no pain. They can heal. They can hope.”

Fen’Asha raised an eyebrow. “And what about me? What do you see when you listen to me?”

“You are….too bright,” said Cole. “Like counting birds against the sun. The mark makes you more, but beyond it you reach further. You pull it through to this side, make it real here. And…the weight of all on you. All the hopes, fears. You are theirs.”

She nodded. It was beginning to make a sort of sense in its own elegant way.

“I hope I help,” he said.

“You do,” she said. “Thank you.”

“What about…Fen’Harel?” she said. She felt strange asking him so many questions, like she was quizzing him for an upcoming examination.

“There is old pain, shadows forgotten from dreams too real,” he said without hesitation. “This side is slow and heavy, but here is what can change.”

“Is he dangerous?” she ventured.

“To your enemies.”

“And for me?”

“He is…drawn to you,” said Cole. “Hopes for you, through you. Simple truths that were hard to recall. Happiness in your eyes. He cares for you deeply. More than he considered possible.”

How was that possible? Fen’Asha blinked, nearly tripped over her boots. She took a few steps back.

“That,” said Cole. He was pointing at her hand, the one with the mark. “It shines on you. Shimmering. Sharp. Strong. Pure. Loud. You ripple like water when the stone is dropped. It reminds me of me.”

Fen’Asha tried to put her thoughts together, but there was little connective tissue. She fished the amulet out of her pocket instead. “Leliana found the amulet Solas told us about,” she said.

“Not here,” said Cole. “We need somewhere that can go away if it becomes sharp.”

 

Cole headed for Solas’ study, walking quickly and impatiently. His hat bobbed through the crowd and he presented the amulet to the elf when he met him.

“It is simple,” said Solas after turning the amulet around in his palm. “You put it on. I charge it. You should be protected.”

Fen’Asha exhaled.

“Have faith, _Vhenan_ ,” Solas said with a sly smile.

Cole put the necklace on and Solas concentrated a magical charge, pointing his fingers toward Cole. There was an explosion and Cole leapt back in surprise, crying out.

Varric, as if on cue, strolled into the study and discovered the commotion. Cole was pacing quickly, Solas was examining his fingers, Fen’Asha was suppressing a chuckle at the notion that the magical spell hadn’t worked the first time. It never works the first time.

“What was that?” Varric said. “What are you doing to him?”

“Stopping blood mages from binding me,” Cole said. He was holding his head. “It didn’t work.”

“Something is interfering with the enchantment,” said Solas. He put his hands behind his back.

“Probably a minor detail, like Cole not being a demon,” said Varric. He crossed his arms.

“I don’t know,” said Fen’Asha when she felt the eyes of the room on her.

“Regardless of any special circumstances, Cole remains a spirit,” said Solas.

“A spirit who is strangely like a person,” said Varric.

“I don’t matter,” said Cole.

Fen’Asha sighed and took a seat at Solas’ desk. It was all surprisingly domestic, except with spirits and demons and amulets forming the subject of argument.

“Just…lock away the parts of me that someone could knot together to make me follow,” said Cole.

“Focus on the amulet,” said Solas. “What do you feel?”

“I am the wrong shape,” said Cole. “There’s something…” He pointed. “That way.”

“You’re sensing something, kid?” said Varric. He sighed. “Find a map and we’ll find what you’re looking for.”

“And you will come?” said Cole. His eyes levelled on everyone in the room.

“Sure,” said Varric.

Cole seemed momentarily satisfied and he traipsed out of the room, still examining the amulet and still walking with alarming ferocity.

Varric cleared his throat. “Inquisitor,” he said. “There’s someone you should meet.”

Fen’Asha nodded, traded a lingering look with Solas, and followed the dwarf out of the rotunda and toward the busy throne room. He pointed out a dwarf in a hood and approached her somewhat sheepishly.

“Bianca Davri at your service,” said the dwarf.

Fen’Asha nodded a greeting.

“You’re not together,” said Bianca.

Varric and Fen’Asha exchanged looks.

“You’re not,” said Bianca. “Her heart is elsewhere. Probably back in there.” She pointed to the opening that led to the rotunda.

“How do you…” Fen’Asha attempted.

“Please,” said Bianca. “A woman knows.”

Varric sighed. “Maybe the rumour will be enough to stop them from sending people to kill me?”

“You worry too much,” said Bianca. “There’s a big hole in the sky. I think the Merchant’s Guild is a little more occupied.”

“If they saw us within three hundred leagues of each other, they’d freeze my assets and have me killed,” said Varric. “So yeah, I’m a little worried.”

Fen’Asha eyed him, expecting answers.

“Something about a clan war,” sighed Varric. “It doesn’t matter now. Bianca has a lead on where Corypheus got his red lyrium.”

“Maybe you should’ve opened with that?” Fen’Asha said.

Varric smirked.

“We are aware of Emprise du Lion,” Fen’Asha continued.

“I’m talking about the original source,” said Bianca. “The thaig Varric found has been leaked. There is a Deep Roads entrance crawling with people carting out the stuff by the handful.”

“Leaked?” said Fen’Asha.

“A few people knew,” explained Varric. “Hirelings from the expedition, that kind of thing. Maybe some close friends.”

“How they found out isn’t important. What matters is we know where they are now,” Bianca said.

“We’ll deal with this,” said Fen’Asha.

Varric was voicing his agreement when Cole appeared with the large map from the war room. Tacks and pins dangled from it and Cullen chased behind.

“I found a map,” Cole announced.

 

The Inquisition headed to the Hinterlands. Fen’Asha and Solas sat by themselves in a carriage, with Varric and Cole occupying another. Varric had made sure that the Inquisitor could have her privacy, nudging her with the suggestion that she better make the most of it.

The carriage rattled noisily down the road, its wooden wheel dipping into every possible rut in the dirt.

It was a blessing to have the privacy, but the Inquisitor could only think about what Vivienne had said. She didn’t actually know much about Solas.

Was patience enough to pry open his secrets? Were there any? Why riddled the beginning of their relationship with warnings?

Fen’Asha looked across at Solas and the space seemed insurmountable.

He sat quietly, reading a book as was his custom.

Love as a battle. Was it supposed to be like this?

She rubbed her temples.

“Are you feeling well, _Vhenan_?” he asked.

She exhaled. “It’s the red lyrium,” she said after a while. “Corypheus has so many sources. It feels like we’re playing catch-up.”

Solas slipped across to join Fen’Asha on her bench. He placed his hand on her knee, looking at her carefully.

“I feel…helpless,” she muttered. She shook her head.

“We can only take this one day at a time,” said Solas.

She pulled him close, hugged him. She hid her face in the crook of his shoulder, eyes moistening with the rush of a maze of emotions and apprehensions. She rebuked herself for fretting over his secrets when she was keeping her own, for worrying about their relationship rather than Corypheus. Awash in guilt, she clung to him, inhaled, smelling him, the elfroot. She willed herself to calmness. There were so many questions, so many secrets.

Solas ran his fingers through her hair, tracing his hand across her scalp. He kissed her temple.

Fen’Asha kept her face buried, the corners of her eyes gathering moisture and her lip quivering with the onset of emotional rain. Corypheus, the Inquisition, the Anchor, Fen’Harel, all the people looking to her.

Birds flying against the sun and all she wanted was his heart.

She reached for help, pulling his face to hers and kissing him. She warmed to the touch, lips on lips on lips. She had her answer, for now at least, and she pushed back on the bench. She straddled him. She swore he understood.

She knew he understood when she pulled her top over her head, eager to drown in him. She held his face tenderly in her hands, shaping him, feeling him, watching him. She stirred in her loins, the roar of passion working its way up into her core.

Solas responded, hardness settling in below. He nuzzled against her, planting kisses on the flesh of her heaving bosom.

She traced the chain of the jawbone, over his tunic, to his back and down to where his true magic lay. She pulled the trousers back a touch and his lengthy colleague nearly sprang into view. She caressed him, savoring the firmness, the shape, the length, then she lowered herself.

She took him in her mouth and her eyes swam to his, ablaze with blistering eagerness as the carriage swayed noisily into another hole in the dirt passageway. She jerked him to the edge of the bench, absorbed him whole, used her endowments, gazed up at him. When she was satisfied by his stiffness, she worked her pants open.

Solas pulled back and she released him.

“ _Garas_ ,” he said.

She grinned, slipping her trousers off leisurely, showing herself to him, touching herself for him, fingers dipping between her legs as the carriage cabin rattled on.

His eyes were fire.

“Do you want me, _Vhenas_?” she said.

He nodded, watching her moist fingers.

She smiled again and straddled him, groaning as she felt him seal her. The carriage tumbled into more holes and rivets, doubling the rhythm of her hips as she rode.

He held her waist, gripping her flesh as she sank on him again and again.

She held to the back of the bench, clutching the fabric, nearly tearing it. She tested herself, drawing back her hips at first and gathering more of him inside. He was against her walls, he was caressing her entrance, he was satisfying her again.

Their lips connected as she plunged down. Their lips broke as she raised herself on his channel, taking her fill again on the way down.

“Do you like this?” she whispered in his ear.

Solas grunted.

“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me what you like.”

“ _Vhenan_ ,” said Solas. “Just keep moving like that…”

He held her as she grinded her hips. She had an answer. One that would have to do for the time being. She lowered herself again and again before the flood of pleasure took her and left her hunched over him.

His spasms arrived, pulsing and pushing up with liquid elation. He closed his eyes, moaning.

She did this to him. She had that answer. She lay against him. She was the one he wanted, another answer. The one who made him sigh like that…

She was the damn Inquisitor.


	18. Pt.1 - Solas: Confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now you play the loving woman. I'll play the faithful man. But just don't look too close into the palm of my hand. We stood at the altar. The gypsy swore our future was right. But come the wee-wee hours, well maybe, baby, the gypsy lied. So when you look at me, you better look hard and look twice. Is that me, baby, or just a brilliant disguise?  
> \- “Brilliant Disguise” Bruce Springsteen

Fen’Asha relaxed. It was a good feeling. She slouched, chatted with Solas, discussed the Fade, the spirits, their books and the Inquisition. She was satisfied with questions that had no answers. She was satisfied with a kiss, a smile, an embrace, a hand in a special place. Those were the solutions she needed.

The carriage rattled to a stop near the mouth of Valammar, near an Inquisition camp that’d been erected some time back. There were several tiers to Valammar and it held quite a lucrative mining operation. It also held darkspawn and Carta dwarves, both of which were more than eager to fight for their space in the thaig.

Bianca was where she said she would be, operating a door mechanism as the Inquisition approached. She pocketed the key, but not before Varric saw what she’d done.

“Shit,” he muttered as he approached her.

She turned to face him, but her eyes refused to meet his.

“You’re the leak?” Varric said.

Bianca sighed. “You sent me those letters after Bartrand’s expedition,” she said. “I...”

“You built the safe,” Varric said. “I trusted you with it. With everything.”

“I wanted to see for myself,” she shrugged. “I was just trying to help. And then…”

Varric crossed his arms. “And then?”

“Red lyrium has the Blight,” she said. “Do you know what this means?”

Varric nodded slowly. “Two deadly things combined to make something awful.”

“It’s alive,” said Bianca. “The Blight doesn’t infect minerals. It infects animals, like people or druffalo or whatever. I wanted to know what this meant. I found an expert, a mage, a Grey Warden…”

“I don’t like where this is going,” said Varric.

Fen’Asha listened intently.

“Larius,” said Bianca. “I gave him a key to the vault.”

“Larius?” Varric said, raising his voice. “Him?”

“Who is she talking about?” asked Fen’Asha.

“Larius was at the Grey Warden prison when we found Corypheus,” said Varric. He began to pace. “He wasn’t a mage then, either.”

“So he _became_ a mage somehow?” said Fen’Asha.

Varric shrugged.

Fen’Asha looked at Bianca, who also shrugged.

“Varric told me how the red lyrium was being used,” Bianca said. “I had to make it right. I fucked up, but…we fixed it. Kind of.”

“It’s not that simple,” said Varric. “This isn’t one of your…machines.”

Bianca nodded.

“You can’t just replace a part and hope for the best,” said Varric.

“No,” said Bianca. “But I can try.”

“Yeah,” said Varric, waving a dismissive hand.

“It’s better than doing nothing,” said Bianca.

Varric glared.

“She had no way of knowing what would happen,” Fen’Asha said. She stepped between Varric and Bianca.

Varric sighed. “I know,” he said. “There’s nothing else we can do here.”

Bianca looked down.

“You better get home before someone misses you,” Varric said as he turned on his heel to leave.

 

It took some time for the Inquisition to reach Redcliffe and Fen’Asha had plenty of time to think about what happened at the thaig. Mistakes were made. Mistakes were always possible. Making them right was the trick, though.

Varric and Solas argued about Cole’s place in the world, about his sense of limbo between the spirit world and the human world. The amulet was still blocked and the location at Redcliffe drew nearer by the step, with Cole becoming more frustrated by the minute.

Soon, it was clearer. There was a Templar at Redcliffe. He left Cole – or who Cole was – to die in a cell at the White Spire.

The Templar paced on an embankment, seemingly sensing something. Cole spotted him and zeroed in on him immediately, chasing the man back to the edge. Eyes filled with panic, Cole screamed and screamed.

“Please,” said Solas. He reached for Cole, trying to hold him back from the Templar.

Varric did likewise and they had a grip on him for a while, but he scrambled.

“He’s responsible,” sputtered Cole. “He _killed_ me.”

“This is what’s keeping the amulet from working,” said Solas as Cole struggled in his arms.

“You can say that again,” said Varric as Cole’s hat fell off.

“You have to move past this,” said Solas. “The only way to do that is to forgive him, embrace your nature as a spirit of compassion.”

“No way,” said Varric. “You’re angry. You have to deal with it like a person, like the rest of us.”

Cole struggled further for a moment, then relaxed.

“You can feel his regret if you try,” said Solas.

“You can’t,” said Varric. “You can only help yourself.”

“Solas is right,” said Fen’Asha, treading forward. “You have to forgive him.”

Varric looked at her and shook his head. He let Cole go and took a few steps back.

Cole looked at his hands. “Forgiveness,” he said. “Help me understand so I can heal. So I can heal them.”

Solas nodded and put his arm around him.

Fen’Asha stood beside Varric, watching Solas whisper to Cole. She wondered about her motivations, wondered if she was being too selfish, but Cole was too valuable as her only connection to the Dread Wolf.

Solas returned after a while with Cole close behind.

“I can feel them again,” said Cole.

“He is safe,” said Solas. He looked at Varric. “He’ll never be bound again. He is his true self.”

They found their way to the Redcliff Inn, making themselves comfortable in the tavern. Cole looked to the various patrons. “So many little hurts, even here,” he said. “I don’t steal the pain. I help them heal. You’ve made me…better.”

Fen’Asha smiled.

“The amulet seems to be working,” said Solas.

Varric sighed loudly and shook his head again.

“Varric,” said Cole. He put his arm around the dwarf. “I am alright. There was someone, before. He was a friend, but he didn’t know me. He didn’t know who I truly was. When I changed, I lost him. When you knew me, you didn’t change. You let me be me. Even if being me is being wrong.”

“And you’re not angry?” said Varric. “With the Templar?”

Cole shook his head. “His pain no longer pulls me from within,” he said.

Varric nodded. “Alright, kid. Alright.”

Cole smiled, patted Varric on the head and walked through the throng, finding a woman to whisper to.

Fen’Asha exchanged looks with Solas, as they watched Cole work. Varric meanwhile, finished his drink and ordered another, still sullen.

“Are you alright?” Fen’Asha asked the dwarf.

“I’m glad we have answers,” said he after a while. “But shit. That damn lyrium. The second she showed up, I knew there was trouble. Somehow, I knew.”

Fen’Asha nodded.

“I’m not good at this shit,” said Varric taking a swig of ale. “You don’t have to listen to me ramble.”

“We’re all figuring this out as we go, Varric.”

“Yeah, but I don’t deal with things,” said Varric. “If Cassandra hadn’t dragged be down here, I’d be in Kirkwall pretending none of this was happening.”

“That’s not true,” said Fen’Asha. “You could’ve left at any time. You’re still here.”

“Sure,” said Varric. “But unleashing red lyrium on the world? That’s something…”

“We all have demons,” said Fen’Asha.

Solas cleared his throat.

“Sure we do,” said Varric, his mug clattering on the table. “You don’t.”

“I killed my father,” blurted Fen’Asha. “I…”

“Inquisitor?” said Solas.

Varric’s jaw dropped and Fen’Asha swore everyone nearby stopped what they were doing entirely.

“It…it was an accident,” she said, staring a hole in the table.

The waitress brought more ale. Fen’Asha’s words hanging in the air like a cloud, Varric sipped his ale.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t running away,” she said after taking a mug. “I wouldn’t have been at the Conclave, wouldn’t have this…thing.” She held up the hand with the Anchor.

“Inquisitor…” said Varric.

“I’m a coward,” she said. She drank. “It’s who I am.”

“Please,” said Varric. “The woman who single-handedly faced Corypheus is a coward?”

“You were there with me,” said Fen’Asha.

Varric nodded, the point registering. “Two peas in a pod, then.”

She nodded, nearly smiled.

Varric looked between the two elves, acknowledging Solas’ silence in the light of the Inquisitor’s confession.

“I’ll take the kid,” he said getting up with a grunt. He gave Solas a pat on the shoulder and said something that Fen’Asha didn’t hear.

She waited, surely he had questions.

Solas took her hand, quietly bidding her to follow him.


	19. Pt.1 - Solas: Consolidation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take off all of your skin. I'm brave when you are free. Shake off all of your sins and give them to me. Close up, let me back in. I wanna be yours, wanna be your hero. And my heart beats like the empires of the world unite. We are alive and the stars make love to the universe.  
> \- “Empires” Shakira

They found their room at the inn, Solas led the Inquisitor in, closing the door behind him.

A breeze wafted in from Lake Calenhad and the sun set the room aglow in dusky hues of purple and pink.

“I never want to hear you say you’re a coward again,” Solas said, facing her. He wrapped his arms around her waist.

She nodded, watching his gleaming eyes.

“Rarely have I met such a remarkable spirit,” he said. “You are brave, compassionate, wise beyond your years, my heart.”

Fen’Asha nodded. She didn’t see what he saw.

“Do you want to talk about your father?” he said.

She sighed, leaving his embrace to sit on the edge of the bed. “I wanted to tell you…”

“So tell me,” Solas said.

“The clan loved him so much,” she said. “Everyone did…it was all my fault…”

Solas sat next to her on the bed, placing a hand on her knee.

“I wasn’t like him,” she continued. “I never fit in. I always did better in the wild, with the wolves. After the pelt, after caring for those pups…I didn’t want to give it up. No matter where we went, I found the wolves.”

Solas nodded.

“I would leave the clan for weeks at a time, gaining the trust of the pack,” she said. “I scared the clan’s hunters. Me in my wolf pelt, in my costume. Hiding.”

Solas ran his fingers through her hair.

“There were rumours,” she said with a slight grin. “Comparisons.”

Solas nodded. “Did you resent it? The comparisons to...Fen’Harel.”

She nodded tentatively. “It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t true.”

Solas looked at her, cocking his head.

“Nothing’s changed,” she said. She toyed with her necklace. “I still prefer the company of wolves. My father defended me…”

“What happened?” Solas said, his hand returning to her knee.

“A pack made its home in an old elven ruin,” she said. “There was a statue inside, remains, ancient Elvhen artifacts. I told the clan. They didn’t care. It was the Dread Wolf. Who cares about the Dread Wolf?”

“They mocked you,” Solas said bitterly.

“Another sign of my obsession, they said,” she whispered. “More ammunition for their name-calling. But I didn’t care. The Keeper, my father…they agreed with me. It was history. It should be considered. The wolves trusted me…if I could find a way…”

Solas’ eyes were gleaming again, the rising moon catching the white.

“I went in to the ruin,” she said. “Everything was fine until…darkspawn. I was warned to keep out after that, my father and the Keeper told me there was no shame in leaving. But I wanted more. I didn’t want to turn my back on history. And I had to protect the wolves from those foul darkspawn. I worked up a routine, killing one or two darkspawn at a time. I was good at it.”

“And then?”

“I was so eager to kill,” she sighed. “So prepared. So _good_ at it. I didn’t see him when he entered, didn’t see him walk into the ruin. If I had steadied my hand…”

Solas pulled her close, hugging her. “It was an accident.”

“It was my fault,” she said. “I was too impatient, too stubborn. I had to have what was in the ruins, even after my father had told me…”

“I’m sorry, _Vhenan_.”

“I was…they were right about me,” she said. She stood, again pushing out of Solas’ embrace.

“That’s not true,” he said.

“It is,” she said. Tears clustered at the corner of her eyes.

Solas shook his head and reached for her hand. He kissed it gently, pulling her back to the edge of the bed.

She did all she could to keep from sobbing.

“Tonight when we dream,” he said. “Find me.”

 

* * *

 

The blue of the moon set the garden aglow. The fountain frothed as the water gushed upward and filtered down into the pool below, pure and lovely. String music wafted from the distance and the Winter Palace sat glowing with noise and revelry. Shadows danced past the windows, cheerful laughter flooded into the patches of grass and pools of liquid.

Solas sat on the edge of the fountain, searching the water.

Fen’Asha sat next to him, tracing her fingers through the cool.

“Yet another memory brought to vivid focus,” said Solas. “You are a wonder.”

“This place is special to me,” she said.

“Shall we dance?” asked Solas. He stood and gave a little bow, offering his hand.

She took it and they fell to their rehearsed movements, circling one another as the swell of music grew louder. They swayed under the trellises, eyes shining in the moonlight.

“I am fortunate to have found you,” she sighed.

“I can say the same,” said Solas. “To this very day, I wonder what drew you to me.”

“Gravity,” she said. “The same force that guides the moon as it circles Thedas.”

Solas nodded.

“After our kiss, in the Fade…” she said. “When you said you needed time, I chose to love you. I chose to give you my gift, to be in your life however you would have me. The yearning is gravity…”

“Love is a gift,” he said.

“I am glad you accepted it,” she said.

They kissed and it was like a shock, blue and full of hunger.

She wanted to melt when the kiss broke. She leaned forward, resting her forehead against his.

“We are getting ahead of ourselves,” said Solas. His voice was gruff, like he was already out of breath.

Fen’Asha exhaled, a trail of air icy before her.

“You asked me about…consolidation in the Fade,” he said.

She nodded. Her head felt like it was moving in a river.

He took her hand, a smile curling across his face. They entwined their fingers, magic brushing and palpitating between their palms.

“You must prepare your mind,” he said. “This could be…overpowering.”

“I trust you,” she said. She gazed up at him, mind brimming with anticipation and curiosity. The world was painted in sparks and shadows.

Solas let her go, stepping away. “Consider your shape, your clothes. You only appear in such a way because you believe you do,” he said. His voice echoed.

She raised her eyebrows.

“Your carnal form, succulent as it may be, is a distraction here,” he continued. “The point is to forget your physicality.”

She nodded.

“Your skin,” he said as he took her hand again. “This is a barrier.”

She felt his warmth circulating through her fingers, awareness trailing up each one and snaking its way to the fingertips.

“Your body is a vessel,” he said. “I want you to forget there is such a thing.”

She stared at her hand, watching her fingers as they wrapped around his. There was movement, energy swirling constantly.

“Consider your energy,” said Solas. “Like water. Fluid. Adaptable.”

As he spoke, she watched as their hands melted together into one imperceptible vapour. Everything and nothing at once. More and less. She felt a part of him and she felt apart from him. She watched as the shape of her hand vanished and returned, melding into one shape and circulating back like a cloud blown by wind. Her entire body was shards of sunlight.

Solas pulled away and their hands returned, clasped together yet cool to the touch.

She looked at him in wonder, her mouth open, panting for more. She impatiently reached for his other hand, clasping it and closing her eyes. It happened again, their two forms folding into one and splashing in an ocean of stars and moons. She was floating in air, diving under water, standing in the sun.

“You learn quickly,” Solas said. His voice was vibrant but lowered, detached but nearby.

She exhaled hard, feeling beads of sweat collecting on the body she no longer had. Water ran down her, coating her, filling her, moving with her, moving without her.

Solas lifted slightly, tracing the area where her arms were. Tracing the forms that faded in and out before their eyes, sketching the energy as it undulated and sank and rose again.

It filled her, like he would but with more pressure and less pressure than she could stand. He was everywhere and nowhere. He was her and she was him.

She gasped, closing her eyes again as vibrations coursed through her. It filled her head, emptied her limbs, drew her heart to song, pressed at her very loins.

Solas stepped back again, his mouth smiling in an ocean chasm.

“More,” she begged.

He nodded, drawing her closer.

She traced her fingers up his torso, watching the tips melt into his skin. She pressed further inside, opening to his essence, holding him like a cloud. The barriers vanished in smoke.

He kissed her hard and she saw white. “You are doing well,” he said.

She saw him through a layer of stars, saw him writing and moving and clutching at his body as he reached for hers. Thousands of arms, thousands of legs, thousands of eyes, thousands of kisses.

He lifted her face to the heavens. “Close your eyes,” he said.

She felt him lift her and set her down, an offering at an altar. She wanted to melt away and absorb him, join him in the stars forever, watch over the Inquisition. The Inquisition…faded….

Solas was all around her now, hands and fingers and toes and knees and legs and eyes and ears. She was everywhere, within him, about him, for him.

The world was one and they were part of it. They saw it all, before time and beyond time. A flower blossoming for the first time. Rocks on a distant moon. A bird in the sky. A fish in the ocean.

Meaning stretched without time and time stretched without meaning. She knew love, she knew light, she knew life.

When it ended, she returned to her shape. She returned to air, as though breathing it for the first time. She gasped, panted, gathered herself.

He stared at her, smiling and drained of all but the light in his eyes.

 “That was incredible,” she said.

“We can do it as often as you like, _Vhenan_ ,” he said. “It was…intense.”

“You’ve been with spirits…” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “But a spirit embodies one idea or emotion. It is…like an exercise to fill yourself with one idea. You are something else altogether.”

Fen’Asha nodded. “Complete.”

“Yes,” said Solas. “A spirit knows no world beyond itself. There are things it cannot imagine, there are limits.”

“Thank you for showing me such wonders,” she said, letting her hands melt into his again.

 


	20. Pt.1 - Solas: Masked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We find ourselves on different sides of a line nobody drew. Though it all may be one in the higher eye, down here where we live it is two. I to my side, call the meek and the mild. You to your side call the Word. By virtue of suffering I claim to have won. You claim to have never been heard. Both of us say there are laws to obey, but frankly I don’t like your tone. You want to change the way I make love, I want to leave it alone.  
> \- “Different Sides” Leonard Cohen

The Inquisition returned to Skyhold only to discover that they would be departing again. This time, they were to head to Emprise du Lion.

Fen’Asha found Dagna before they departed, wanting to know more about the Fade after the dwarf had pulled “pieces” from her clothing after Adamant.

“I’ve learned something,” said Dagna as she toyed with a contraption in the undercroft. “I think.”

“What is it?” Fen’Asha smiled coming closer.

“Well, it’s weird…”

“Well, that goes without saying.”

“Lyrium and the Fade are linked,” Dagna said. “But dwarves and the tranquil are not linked. They both work lyrium, so they would have to be. Right?”

“Okay…” Fen’Asha chewed her lip. “I think I see what you mean… But how is the Fade connected?”

“Well…” Dagna frowned. “I…I found myself face-deep in a rune…And I was tall. I was _really_ tall. And I thought _all_ the thoughts.”

“You thought all the thoughts?” Fen’Asha raised her eyebrow.

Dagna sighed. “I…how do I put this? I was around all my people, right? And what I thought was what they thought. And what they thought was what I thought. Right?”

Fen’Asha shrugged. “So, your thoughts were their thoughts?”

Dagna shook her head. “No. My thought was all our thoughts. Parts of it, right?”

Fen’Asha shook her head.

“Words suck,” said Dagna. “Maybe that’s what the Stone feels like. Or what we think it feels like. Right?”

“Okay…”

“I was…tall,” said Dagna.

“Yes, you were tall,” said Fen’Asha.

“But I was moving,” said the arcanist. “I saw a Shaperate carve the Wall of Memory, but in jumbo size. Big. Is that weird?”

“Yes?”

Dagna frowned.

“So the tranquil and dwarves are linked to lyrium?” asked Fen’Asha.

Dagna nodded.

“And not linked?”

“Right. Like, the lyrium needs to flow,” said Dagna. “But if you’re part of it, it takes you with it. So you can’t be part of it, right? There’s something sad about that.”

“Alright...” Fen’Asha sighed.

“I hate this,” said Dagna. “I have answers. But I don’t.”

“All the more reason to keep looking,” said Fen’Asha. “Keep trying.”

Dagna nodded. She smiled.

“But how is lyrium and the Veil connected? If lyrium allows magic to flow… but only non-magical people can handle it…” Fen’Asha searched the rock over head for answers. It had none.

“The Veil…” Dagna said. “Is like opposite… Tranquil and dwarves don’t have access but mages have full access…Right? So the Veil is the opposite of lyrium.”

Fen’Asha nodded slowly. “So… What does that make the Veil?”

Dagna nodded. “Exactly. Want a cup of cocoa now? Cause that’s as far as I got before I needed a cup of cocoa.”

Fen’Asha nodded, “Yes, please.”

After a soothing cup of cocoa Fen’Asha left the curious dwarf and the Undercroft. She began to wander Skyhold, meaning to visit with her companions, but found herself once again gravitating towards Solas.

He was working on his fresco, painting the events of Adamant. Mesmerized she sat at his desk, watching him apply his skill and thumbing through his books absentmindedly as she recounted her conversation with Dagna.

Solas nodded as he listened, his brush unceasing in its application of pigment.

“It seems like we’re on to something there… Lyrium and the Veil being opposing forces somehow… I mean it has to be…” Fen’Asha held up the Anchor. “But what does that mean for the Anchor? If only I could uncover some of the secrets the ancient elvhen.”

“Their knowledge would be invaluable,” he said, continuing his painting.

Fen’Asha continued to thumb through his research. One page caught her eye, as if in answer to her request for ancient elvhen insight. It was a note concerning the translation of ancient elven text discovered under one of Skyhold’s ruined pillars.

Solas’ translation was written in tight flawless penmanship as always.

 _Our belief transformed into everything. (assertation/problem? uncertain)_  
_All time is transformed into the final/first death (uncertain),_  
_Inevitable/threatened victory and horrible/promised freedom in the untorn veils, (uncertain)_  
_Where the sky is held up/back, where the people give/gain love that is an apology/promise from/to....(missing subject, uncertain)_

She read the writing several times. First or final death… untorn veils… the sky held up…

Had this all happened before? Did the end of elvhen immortality come about because the veil had been torn?

She was disturbed from her considerations as Leliana stepped into the rotunda.

“Inquisitor,” she said. “May I have a word?”

Fen’Asha nodded, sitting up attentively.

“I have the information you requested,” said Leliana, approaching the desk, producing some papers. “And a letter from your Keeper.”

_Da'len,_

_The nobles of Wycome grow restless. They blame us and the alienage elves for some disease that has stricken the humans of the city. I have seen their scouts watching our new camp with predators' eyes._

_Some of the elves fled their alienage to warn us. Others fled to escape the harsh treatment they are suffering in the city. I fear violence will come soon, da'len. I seek your aid._

_Dareth shiral,_

_Keeper Istimaethoriel Lavellen_

“We suspect the sickness Keeper Lavellen refers to is caused by red lyrium,” said Leliana with a sigh. “Wycome has placed it in the wells used by humans in the city. Our diplomats report that this has not happened in the alienage…”

“My clan must be safe,” said Fen’Asha.

Leliana nodded. “Of course.”

“What are our options?”

“My scouts can get them into the city,” said Leliana.

“Would they be safe there?”

“There are resistance groups,” said Leliana. She pointed to a few pieces of paper. “Your clan would have support, safety in numbers.”

Fen’Asha nodded. “Do it.”

Leliana nodded and walked away.

Fen’Asha leaned back in Solas’ chair to read the rest of Leliana’s findings. There was a notation about Fen’Harel, which turned up a Ben-Hassrath report to Iron Bull.

It told of a mission in the Free Marches, where a Dalish clan was tasked with keeping Fen’Harel’s mask secure. The Keeper was taken by the Chantry and put in prison by Templars. In prison, the Keeper came in contact with a _saarabas_ , a Qunari mage. The _saarabas_ learned of the mask and escaped prison, journeying to the Dalish clan to secure the artifact for himself.

A certain Tallis was tasked with stopping the Qunari from using the mask of Fen’Harel, but it was too late. The _saarabas_ secured an elven woman and performed a ritual at Sundermount. A blood ritual.

The elven woman died and the mask was activated, producing a Fade portal that was similar to the Breach. The _saarabas_ was assured that the portal would swallow the very world.

Luckily, Tallis saved the day. She destroyed the Fade portal by shattering the mask of Fen’Harel.

Fen’Asha’s mind raced. The Dread Wolf had magic concerning the Fade. The Orb was his, wasn’t it? And the Anchor, too?

She lowered the report, toying with her necklace. That had to be the answer. The untorn veils, too… Somehow the Dread Wolf could control it, his power could be used to tear or patch the veil.

If Cole was right, if she made Fen’Harel happy, then the Wolf wanted the veil closed… Maybe Solas should know. Maybe…

She looked up to find him already beside her.

“Why are you investigating Fen’Harel?”

“I…”

Solas drew near, leaned against the table, the black jawbone swung forward with sharp fangs.

“I think I have some answers,” she said, gesturing with the papers. “The Orb. It could be his.”

“So?”

“So…”

“What does that mean? Do we seek him out? Hunt down a god?” he sneered.

“Hunt down…” she stared at him, his scowl. “You don’t even believe, do you?”

“In what?”

“Our elven gods,” she said. “You think this is all a waste. A joke.”

“Our gods?” scoffed Solas. “Please, Inquisitor.”

“Tell me,” she said.

“Not unless you want to expand the definition of the word to the point of absurdity.”

“Absurdity?” she stood, offended.

“I believe that they existed,” he said. “Something existed to start these…legends. Mages or spirits or something we’ve never seen.”

“All the more reason to look, to want to know,” said Fen’Asha. “How could you not want to know? It could reveal so much…”

Solas put his hands behind his back.

“If there is some ancient elven mage wandering this world, I have this power,” said Fen’Asha. “ _His_ power. Wouldn’t that be important? The mark too. What if it binds me somehow?”

Solas looked off at the door to the rotunda. “I see. So you are frightened of Fen’Harel.”

“ _I_ have this,” she said, holding up her hand with the Anchor. The papers rattled out of her grasp, floating to the floor.

Solas watched the papers scatter.

“ _I_ have to contend with it, with him…with my father, my clan, with everything,” she said.

“You are right,” said Solas. “But I did not mention your history.”

Fen’Asha nodded slowly. “My history is part of me, Solas.”

“Your history is the past,” said Solas. “It belongs there with the other relics, with the gods, with their futility.”

Fen’Asha scoffed, “Is that how you consider your past? Is that why you have nothing to say about it?”

Solas frowned.

She looked away, exasperated. They had drawn a crowd from the library.

“You’re right,” he said. He bent down to pick up the papers. “I should have been more thoughtful.”

She averted her gaze from the piercing dark eyes above, held the stone against her thumping heart. How much had they heard?

“The mark does not bind you to any god,” he said. He handed her the papers, organized as they were into a neat pile. “You have nothing to fear. Least of all from the Dread Wolf.”

“ _Ir abelas_ ,” said Fen’Asha. “Your questions weren’t wrong.”

Their eyes met.

“I distracted you,” she said, taking the report. “Forgive me.”

She turned down the hallway, away from Solas, and away from prying eyes.

 

The looming elven fortress that was Suledin Keep reached for the skies, as if in pain. The Red Templars had been using it to seize Emprise du Lion, to conduct experiments with red lyrium. The fortress buckled under their cruelty.

Fen’Asha stood over the scorching corpse of Ishmael, a desire demon now committed to nothingness. She wanted to stamp on it, commit it further to dust, but she gritted her teeth instead. There was work to be done. Always.

Solas approached from behind. “You did well, _Vhenan_ ,” he said. “This will be a great blow to Corypheus’ resources.”

She reached for him and they held hands, but there was a tentativeness to the touch, as there had been since the scene under the library, and throughout their time in Emprise du Lion. But she tired of the heaviness of her prayer stone and their hesitation.

She nuzzled against Solas, against her wolf pelt which he now wore strapped across his shoulder. She pulled him in.

The moment wasn’t even broken when a gigantic dragon crumbled its way from the distance and roared into full view above them, its scales glistening in the burning red fires below. It flew to the distance, graceful wings flapping like a majestic bird.

 “Get a tent,” spat Sera as she kicked limply at Ishmael’s remains. “I want to keep my biscuits down.”

“I think it’s romantic,” said Cassandra, eyes fixed on the dragon.

“You would,” sniggered Sera. “You boxed-up, starchy, starry-eyed thing.”

“I am not…starry-eyed,” said Cassandra.

“How _is_ the new _Swords and Shields_ , Cassandra?” said Fen’Asha as she clutched Solas’ hand tighter.

Cassandra sighed and turned around, taking a few steps down the staircase to where the rest of the Inquisition still stood. Something changed her mind and she spun around, eyes full. “It is magnificent,” she gushed.

Even Solas cracked a smile.

Sera made gagging sounds. “You’re all hopeless,” she said. “Some kind of Lovequisition. First you two, then Dorian and Iron Bull…”

“Dorian and Iron Bull?” asked Fen’Asha.

“That’s right,” said Sera. “If you weren’t always off making raunchy elf love…”

Fen’Asha smirked. “It’s your job to keep me informed,” she said. “I’m disappointed in you, Sera.”

“ _You’re_ disappointed?” said Sera. “I’m the one who has to listen to all that oohing and ahhing.”

 

The day faded to night and Fen’Asha took to the tent where her advisers operated. It looked like a miniature war table, complete with figurines and a big cloth map that spanned the expanse of a wooden table. Cullen stood in the corner, pondering something, and Leliana was in an opposite corner with her arms crossed and a fur wrapped around her neck.

The events at Emprise du Lion were grave enough to require a larger presence from the Inquisition, so the advisers were determined to make the most of their time.

“How are things?” she asked as she saw Josephine studying the corner of the makeshift map.

“The miners have returned safely home,” said Josephine. “Mistress Poulin is eager to make amends for her part in this calamity.”

“Then she should make amends to the people of Sahrnia,” Fen’Asha said. “They have suffered much this winter.”

Josephine nodded in agreement, “I will see what we can do.”

“Michel de Chevin should be a fine addition to the Inquisition,” said Leliana. “He appreciates what you accomplished in his stead.”

Fen’Asha nodded. “Anything for a fallen champion of Celene’s,” she smirked.

“Few can rise above the politics of Orlais and remain intact,” said Josephine with a grimace. “Still, he knows the ins and outs of the Game after his exile from Imperial Court. Perhaps he could assist our noble allies…”

“I have no use for him in Val Royeaux,” said Leliana. “But he does claim to know something of elven mirrors. Perhaps he could assist Solas and our scholars somehow.”

Cullen coughed. “He’s a chevalier,” he said plainly. “Not for nothing, but he even defeated Grand Duke Gaspard. I could use that kind of…endowment.”

“Fine,” huffed Leliana. “Send him to Cullen.”

Fen’Asha chuckled. “Done.”

Cullen smiled to the others, bowing with slender embellishment.

"And what of the dragons?” asked Fen’Asha.

“The reconstruction of the bridge is taking longer than we anticipated,” said Josephine. “I am afraid it will require a return trip.”

Fen’Asha sighed, “So what’s next?”

“You took down Ishmael and operations here,” said Cullen. “Losing Suledin Keep will hurt when he learns of it. We suspect he’ll move south to the Arbor Wilds after uprooting his major strongholds. He’s on the defensive, clearly.”

“And that makes him dangerous,” said Leliana. “More dangerous, I mean.”

“Then we strike,” said Fen’Asha. “Now.”

“I wonder what he’s thinking of, heading to the Arbor Wilds,” said Josephine.

“Whatever he’s up to, there’s surely something of value there,” said Cullen.

“We’ll find out,” said Fen’Asha. “We’ll formulate our plans back at Skyhold. I should also speak with Morrigan. Shame she couldn’t make the trip.”

 

Fen’Asha was relieved to reach her tent and she sat at the wooden chair at her tiny table, looking out of the open flap to the small camp surrounding her. There was boisterous merriment, but she wanted to be alone. She heard Sera’s guffaws in the distance and the clinking of glasses and bottles.

She held her prayer stone, devoted her thoughts to the Wolf.

The sun had long since dipped below the skyline when Solas poked his head through the flap of the tent.

She said his name and he entered, crouching low before sitting across from her at the table.

He extended his hands, reaching across the tattered wood and the sprinkled papers. “ _Vhenan_ , about our quarrel at Skyhold…” he began.

Fen’Asha took his hands. “Please,” she said. “It is forgotten.”

Solas sighed. “I was…not myself.”

“ _Ar lath ma,_ Solas,” said Fen’Asha. “Your past…I know you’ve been through battle. I know there is…sorrow. If you ever want to talk. I am here for you, _Vhenas_.”

“You are remarkable,” said Solas. “I lose myself when you are near.”

Fen’Asha smiled, letting go of his hands.

Solas regarded her fully, his eyes gleaming blue in the slight glow from the candle. He looked briefly at her documents, eyes flashing, and focused back on the Inquisitor.

She had her hair tied in a braid and she pulled at it, loosening her silky locks and letting it tumble around her shoulders. She rose and reached for him, kissing him over the candlelight.

Solas returned the gesture and they met in the middle, his hands snaking around her waist and pulling her to the ground beside the bedroll.

Fen’Asha began to regret that she’d turned down the offer for an elaborate Orlesian rug to cover the ground, as the small stones and muck from Emprise du Lion prodded her back. Soon, however, the earth melted with her as Solas’ kiss transported her away.

He brushed her hair from her face, kissing her cheeks, nose, lips. He nibbled at her chin.

“Solas,” she breathed. “Take me.”

He surrounded her then and slipped on top of her, scrabbling with his trousers and then loosening her robe. He pulled aside her undergarments, towed the thin fabric in the crevasse of her thigh, and his hands began to work, toying with the outside of her lushness before he introduced his resistance and prodded her.

She gasped when he entered and her eyes searched, noticing the open flap of the tent, noticing the flickering glow of the candle, noticing how they were exposed to anyone who’d happen to stroll by on this night in Emprise du Lion, noticing how she didn’t care.

Solas bucked his hips eagerly, rapidly, muscularly. He breached her, there on the ground in the tent. And speedily he gripped her hips and drove himself inside with hard, plunging thrusts.

She gripped him, bit her lip, trying to suppress any outburst of desire from fleeing her mouth. If anyone heard her, if anyone walked by…

He grunted, either unaware or uncaring of the view of the night. He exploded, gushing his elven balm inside her and releasing himself with hasty, taut drives.

She lay back as he breathed heavily on her, her moistness resolving itself and drifting away in an ocean of sensations.

Solas rolled from her and found a place on the bedroll, watching her as she crawled to the tent flap and finally closed it.

“Do you know how long I watched you?” he asked. The light flickered as he buckled his trousers.

She shook her head, adjusting her small clothes.

“How long I waited, wanted…”

She shook her head again, a smile threatening to break the mood. She was breathing heavily, chest rising and falling.

“Do you know how many temptations I have faced?” His eyes were aglow.

“No,” she breathed.

“How many demons of desire, each alluring in their own way?”

She joined him on the bedroll, feeling his fingers as they stroked her head, touched her face, charted her vallaslin.

“You,” he said. “You I had to taste.”

He kissed her, a gentle expression that built with potency until he was on top of her again. His hands examined her, fondled her, pulled at her flesh under the robe. He trailed kisses down her neck, guiding his mouth along every inch of bare flesh until he covered her entire form with his heat.

She lie sweltering, eager, writhing yet again.

“I know every inch of you,” he said.

“I am yours,” she said as she closed her eyes, allowing his mouth to please her once more.


	21. Pt.1 - Solas: Impasse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When we first met the well was dry. A long dark winter passed us by. With shooting stars and hopeful hearts our worlds collide. And so we rushed to fill each other in. Quick to feed our hungry hopes. A feast of our affections we were born anew. With open eyes we tried to make it work and for a while the magic took.  
> \- “Awakenings” Sarah McLachlan

Fen’Asha opened her eyes to find herself in an expansive space that seemed to exist in a prism. The colours glistened vibrantly, as if she’d stepped inside one of Solas’ paintings.  She looked around, discovering that she was utterly alone but for other dark, looming objects. She sifted her way through the mist of light, noticing other mirrors and unnatural trees serving as adornments to the strange locale.

“If this place had a name, it has been lost,” said a voice. It was Morrigan and she stood at Fen’Asha’s side, appearing as suddenly as she’d disappeared through the _eluvian_.

“I’ve never seen colours like this,” said Fen’Asha as she ran her fingers through the gathering mist, the colours swirled and changed under her fingertips.

“Colours? Could it be your elven eyes see it differently?” Morrigan tilted her head. “All I see is grey.”

Fen’Asha looked at her quizzically.

“I call this place the Crossroads,” continued Morrigan. “Hardly an innovative appellation, but certainly appropriate. This seems to be where all the eluvians join.”

“How?” asked Fen’Asha.

“Who knows?” said Morrigan with an uncharacteristic shrug. “Your people left no roads, no maps, no helpful hints. There are only ruins, pushed away in the distant crooks of this world.”

“And this is how they travelled between them…”

Morrigan nodded.

“This place feels…different,” said Fen’Asha. “Unnatural.”

“But it crumbles, even now,” said Morrigan. “Eventually, it will cave in on itself and the Crossroads will be lost.”

“What then?”

Morrigan shrugged again. “For now it stands and so it is valuable,” she said. “That is why Corypheus seeks the eluvian in the Arbor Wilds.”

Fen’Asha nodded. “These other mirrors…”

“Most of them remain dark, broken,” said Morrigan. “Perhaps they are corrupted or worse. Only a few can be opened from this side and not all of them lead back to our world.”

“Where do they lead?”

“Places…between,” said Morrigan.

“And we can open some of them from here?”

Morrigan shook her head. “There are barriers.”

“But if Corypheus…with his power?” asked Fen’Asha.

“Someone with enough power could theoretically tear down the barriers, yes.”

“Then he could enter the Fade,” said Fen’Asha.

Morrigan nodded. “But he is scrambling because of you,” she said. “He can be stopped.”

Fen’Asha continued to sift through the refracted light, watching the dark mirrors. She wondered where they went, where they didn’t go, who was on the other side. She wondered if they led to the Fade or even beyond. The possibilities were staggering in their endlessness.

“Come,” said Morrigan. “We must go.”

They returned to Skyhold the way they came and Fen’Asha took a moment to peruse the edges of the eluvian. There was no telling what stalked the forgotten lands beyond. There was no telling what was watching or lurking on the other side of the glass. Anyone with power could…

As they returned to the coolness of the garden, Fen’Asha noted the appearance of real trees. They rose, green and proud, and touched the sky. Whatever “grew” in the Crossroads was soiled and forgotten, but there was power there nevertheless.

Leliana approached from across the garden, greeting Morrigan with a slight wave and a smirk before the witch tended to other business in the opposite corner of the garden.

“I see you were speaking with Lady Morrigan,” said the spymaster.

Fen’Asha nodded.

“What did she show you?”

“There is an eluvian through there,” said Fen’Asha, pointing to the storage room. “It is what Corypheus seeks in the Arbor Wilds.”

“And if he finds it?” asked Leliana.

Morrigan appeared, wrangling her son with both arms. He chuckled, but her face was stern. “Then he can enter the Fade…”

“Shit,” said Leliana.

“Indeed,” said Morrigan.

“What happens if he enters the Fade?” asked Leliana.

“Anything his evil little heart desires,” said Morrigan. Her son stopped struggling and she held him close, kissing him affectionately on the forehead and brushing at his disobedient dark locks.

“So what do we do?” asked the spymaster.

“Whatever it takes,” said Fen’Asha. “We head for the Arbor Wilds immediately.”

Morrigan nodded at Leliana, who returned the gesture.

“There is one more thing,” said the spymaster. “We received word from the Free Marches. Your clan is safe. The merchants and labourers joined the Dalish and city elves upon discovery of red lyrium. There was a small but cruel revolt and…”

“Yes?” said Fen’Asha.

“I’m afraid trouble remains,” said Leliana. She passed the Inquisitor a piece of paper.

_Da'len,_

_Thanks to the efforts of your Inquisition, Clan Lavellen is safe. Duke Antoine's furious efforts have ended in his death._

_Still other cities of the Free Marches listen to deceitful stories. I fear they will retaliate. I am loathe to flee the safety of this city and I will not abandon the city elves to destruction._

_I welcome your advice._

_Dareth shiral,_

_Keeper Istimaethoriel Lavellen_

Fen’Asha looked up to her advisor, “What resources do I have at my disposal?”

“Josephine’s diplomats may be able to convince the remaining Marchers to listen to reason,” Leliana told her. “Or to be safe… we could send troops to fortify the city.”

Fen’Asha sighed. “We can’t afford to dispatch any of our forces there. We need all our strength to face Corypheus in the Arbor Wilds. Have Josephine send her diplomats to Wycome.”

The spymaster nodded and left Fen’Asha to the gardens. The Inquisitor stretched and sighed. Perhaps she’d be allowed a few hours of peace before the next stone fell from heaven.

She turned to find Solas in the garden and sat beside him, peering up at the sun as it snaked through the trees.

They sat quietly for a while, watching the hustle and bustle as Chantry sisters and mages coexisted in the greenery. Morrigan’s son sat reading nearby, his black hair a tangle.

After a while, Fen’Asha told Solas about what Morrigan had showed her. She detailed her guesses of Corypheus’ plans. “I still don’t understand how the ancients fell to Tevinter when they had such power,” she sighed.

“I believe the Crossroads fell into disuse many years before the humans found the Elvhen,” Solas said. “Such feats as crafting the Crossroads took the will of many. And it likely took many hundreds of years to accomplish it.”

“So the Orb Corypheus wields must have taken similar effort,” said Fen’Asha.

Solas nodded.

“We must get it back,” said Fen’Asha.

Solas nodded again and reached below into a pack he was keeping near his feet. “I wanted you to have this,” he said.

She raised her eyebrows.

He produced a garment, a piece of armor with a design clearly inspired by the Dalish people.

She smoothed it out on her leg, gazing at it as it glimmered in the sunlight. The silky fabric was stitched with overlaying designs and there was a protective layer underneath made of chainmail. Leather leggings were connected with garters that would leave the soles of her feet bare.

“I had Dagna create this for you,” said Solas. “So she deserves most of the credit.”

She gushed. “This is…wonderful, Solas.”

“You once said you missed your old Dalish attire,” he said. He touched the fabric.

She nodded and examined the armor further, touching the chainmail and the skirt that would hang between her thighs. She observed the silk, how it was linked along the sides with sinuous threads that left little to the imagination. She imagined how it would look, how her bare skin would appear against the darker threads and how her curves would pour into the chainmail. She grinned.

“You like it?” Solas said.

“I do,” she said. “But something tells me you’re going to like it more.” She nudged him.

Solas raised an eyebrow. “I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

She raised the armor just a little, letting the skirt drop.

Solas sighed. “I admit my intentions were not entirely wholesome,” he said. “But…it will guarantee your protection in battle.”

“It will also ensure easier access,” she said.

“I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said again.

“Come,” she said, rising from the bench. “I’ll show you.”

 

Late in the afternoon, Fen’Asha made her way to the Commander’s tower. She climbed the stone stairs, careful to rub her sore thigh from behind the wedged corner. She bit back a smile, nodded at a cluster of guards and opened the big wooden door to Cullen’s workplace.

The room was lit by several candles and pillar lanterns and there was a small bookshelf in the corner, with several pieces of paper straggling out of different volumes. There were a few chests in the opposite corner and Cullen’s desk was a mass of documents, maps and other material.

“Ah, Inquisitor,” he said as he noticed her standing in his doorway.

She nodded at him, smiling as she cast an eye over the disarray.

“We…managed to track down the Red Templar headquarters,” he said. “They got word of our arrival and burned the place to the ground. They got away with most of the supplies, too.”

Fen’Asha frowned.

“The good news is that Samson’s tranquil mage Maddox was alive when I found him,” Cullen continued.

“That is good news,” said Fen’Asha.

“I was able to secure some of his research,” said Cullen. He began sifting through the papers on his desk.

Fen’Asha waited patiently.

“We do know that the red lyrium deposits are being devastated at we speak,” he said. “We’ve cut the Red Templars down and Samson’s army is debilitated. That means he won’t be able to sustain his enchanted armor…”

Fen’Asha nodded her approval. “Excellent job, Commander,” she said.

He seemed to realize something and crossed his arms. “I did send some of the findings to Dagna,” he said.

As if on cue, Dagna burst through the door behind Fen’Asha and nearly toppled the Inquisitor in her excitement. After copious apologies and some brushing off of the elf’s clothing, Dagna moved to the middle of the room and tried to stand still.

“What is it?” said Fen’Asha.

“I finished it,” she said. “I finished it.” She handed the Inquisitor a rune.

Fen’Asha studied it, turning its overpowering red glow around in her hand. “What is this?”

“This isn’t just any rune,” said Dagna. “I made it with red lyrium. Duh.” She tittered.

Cullen cleared his throat. “And?”

“And what was left of Maddox’s tools,” continued the dwarf. “The rune acts on the intermediate clefts of lyrium and engenders an, uh, impermeable but appreciable continuum of energy that can manifest itself in a vigorous trace of…”

“The what?” said Cullen.

“You can use it to kick Samson’s ass,” said Dagna. “It’ll destroy his armor. Completely.”

“There goes one of Corypheus’ most powerful officers,” said Fen’Asha.

“Exactly,” said Dagna. She nearly leapt in place.

“We know what we have to do and we have the tools to do it,” said Cullen. “We are ready when you are, Inquisitor.”


	22. Pt.1 - Solas: Rituals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love is blindness. I don't want to see. Won't you wrap the night around me, my love. Blindness. A little death without mourning. No call and no warning. Baby, a dangerous idea that almost makes sense. Love is drowning in a deep well. All the secrets and no one to tell.  
> \- “Love Is Blindness” U2

The forest lay before Fen’Asha and the Inquisition. It was ablaze with battle, the vegetation distorted into smouldering dust and red flames. The sound was often deafening, with detonations of combat and screams of horror rising from different parts of the Arbor Wilds.

There was fanfare for Fen’Asha all the same and the soldiers around the central camp raised their swords when she arrived.

She dismounted and headed for the middle of camp, near the cluster of requisition tables and tactic posts. Cullen bustled here and there, collecting small bands of troops and setting them to different places on maps. Other clusters of soldiers gathered here and there, talking noisily as they noticed the Inquisitor stride through camp.

“Do you imagine it is Andraste your soldiers invoke when they face their demise or is it a more immediate name?” said Morrigan as she surveyed the throng.

“Time is short,” said Fen’Asha.

Morrigan sighed. “If your scouts report accurately, the ruins we seek should be the Temple of Mythal. The _eluvian_ is likely within.”

Fen’Asha nodded and set out for the ruin as marked on her maps, following the prepared operations plans generated at Skyhold.

They moved down in the riverbanks, sloshing through water that grew red with blood. There had been combat on the road and in the forest nearby and several bodies dotted the pathway to the ruin.

Fen’Asha frowned as she saw her own soldiers cut down, bodies wrecked by magic and Red Templar weaponry. She grew angry as she saw trees burning, wildlife destroyed, rocks blemished with blood. Corypheus and his forces left a mark on the land, a mark that would not soon fade. In his desperation and greed, he drew devastation over everything in his path.

Soon, there were elves. They dipped in and out of the forest, appearing between the trees and plants and bodies.

In a flash of lightning and metal, Fen’Asha felt the cold glint of steel at her back. It clanked against her chainmail and she felt breath in her ear.

“ _Ma halam_ ,” exhaled an elf.

She turned her head slightly, sure she was caught, but the elf stood frozen for a moment before collapsing to the ground in a heap of blood and ice.

Solas stood over the remains.

“Who are these elves?” said Fen’Asha.

Solas looked down, shaking his head. “Perhaps this Temple of Mythal is not deserted.”

Morrigan strode up to the chunks of ice that bled into the rock underneath and touched it gingerly. “Few return from the Arbor Wilds,” she said. “Now we know why.”

They continued on their journey and soon found themselves at the incredible gates to a tunnel. An archway introduced a small tunnel, which was framed by two enormous statues of Fen’Harel.

Fen’Asha gazed up at the statues, taking in their scope.

“There is fighting ahead,” said Solas.

Sure enough, the raw sounds of combat echoed through the rock tunnel. The clanging of steel and the moans of more soldiers falling to fire and ice rose and fell rapidly, like waves of violence carrying through the passageway.

They rode through the darkened corridor, discovering shadows of rock fixtures that marked a soaring bridge above a thundering constellation of vapours, and a looming edifice at the other end that looked to be the mouth of the Temple of Mythal.

The commotion of battle roared and they found themselves on a veranda of sorts, a rock construction that looked down over a small dell surrounded by overrun bushes, trees and noise.

A skirmish raged below, with Red Templars fighting a gathering of elves at what appeared to be the final platform before the bridge. And there, striding between the fighting elves and Red Templars was Corypheus. He was impossibly tall, as Fen’Asha remembered him, and he was grotesque. He smelled of the Blight. The Orb wasn’t in his hands.

An elf fired arrows from a spot near a bush, relentlessly working his small hands with his impressive bow. The arrows soared through the air and landed harmlessly, with Corypheus batting them away as he moved through the environment. The elf shouted something that Fen’Asha strained to hear.

“They still fight us, master,” boomed another voice.

“These are but fragments of a once commanding force,” roared Corypheus in caustic reply. “They will not keep us from the Well of Sorrows.”

Fen’Asha inhaled as she saw Corypheus narrow his gaze on the elf with the arrows, the bold elf firing his life at this repugnant character. He moved toward statues and figures marking the stone bridge opening below and raised his hideous arms.

“Be honoured,” he bellowed. “Witness death at the hands of a new god.”

With his movements, the statues detonated in sapphire and emissions of light streaked toward Corypheus. Soon he was buried in blue light, a shadow against the clash surrounding him. He vanished for a moment and Fen’Asha’s eyes widened as she struggled to see.

Everything exploded, including Corypheus and his surroundings.

Fen’Asha and her companions sailed to the ground with the force of the explosion and thrashed to their feet as quickly as possible, stumbling on their way to the balustrade. She peered over the rail and saw desolation. There was no motion apart from roasting bushes and trees. All was quiet. Too quiet.

As she gestured for her companions to follow her down the nearby stairs, she finally saw movement. It was Samson, complete with a group of Red Templars. They were tracking carefully across the bridge, nearing the mouth of the Temple.

“Stop,” shouted Fen’Asha as she crossed the now-still frontline. She reached the bottom of the stairs, her staff at the ready.

Samson looked over his shoulder. He smiled and continued his trek across the raised conduit.

Fen’Asha looked around her. Why was this man smiling? His master just exploded…

There was a gurgling sound and a groan from behind her and magic thundered.

She spun around and saw a Grey Warden straggling to his feet, knees buckling and bending until they broke. He didn’t topple. He stood taller, shattered knees and crooked legs beneath him. His body lurched and his head jerked downward, twisting into an unnatural position. He shuddered all the way back, the spine cracking in two, and blood discharged from his now-open mouth. His body was taken by ruthless spasms and blood disgorged in tarry surges, pouring from every orifice before he finally buckled in a merciful heap.

Red lyrium took him next, bursting from his skin like crimson blades.

Morrigan gasped. “It cannot be.”

The lyrium formed itself with great cracking sounds, shaping into a colossal claw that pierced the sky and burst forth from the annihilated remains of the Grey Warden. The claw scraped at the air around it, groping and lashing around as if something larger, something hideous was trying to blossom from the sick soil left behind by the corpse.

“Run,” said Fen’Asha as she led her companions across the bridge toward the Temple entry.

A surreal shrieking sound followed her command and Corypheus’ dragon cut into the atmosphere, its knife-like wings and arms guiding it. And soon there was Corypheus himself, resurrected from the sordid red of the former Grey Warden. He towered, more gruesome than ever, and revealed himself full in astonishing power.

Fen’Asha didn’t stop to observe him, scrambling to the great temple doors. They were open, a small mercy provided by Samson, who must’ve also seen it in his heart to make a break for it.

The companions raced into the Temple of Mythal without thought and combined their efforts to slam the great stone doors, pushing with every ounce of their might. The door scraped and trembled and cursed them, but the Inquisition dragged stone against stone and closed the mighty thing before the dragon could prepare its nauseating attack.

Fen’Asha sank against it, knowing they were shielded for the moment by whatever power lay within the Temple. She heaved, breathing heavily and looking at her fatigued companions. Even Morrigan stood winded, the crook of her staff tight in her shaking hands.

It took a few moments to catch her breath, but Fen’Asha finally felt steady enough to move on.

“What the hell was that?” blurted Sera.

“Good question,” said Fen’Asha.

“It seems he can pass his life force on to any Blighted creature, be it darkspawn or Grey Warden,” said Morrigan.

“So…kill him and he doesn’t die?” asked Sera. She fiddled with the string of her bow.

“Archdemons possess this ability as well,” said Morrigan. “The Grey Wardens are able to slay them, but this Corypheus was locked away. Perhaps their answers were…incomplete.”

“Or perhaps the Grey Wardens are stupid,” said Sera.

“Is Corypheus using the Blight to make himself immortal?” asked Fen’Asha.

“It’s possible,” said Morrigan. “But how?”

“Another good question,” said Fen’Asha.

“I suggest first dealing with what he’s after,” said Morrigan.

“She is correct,” said Solas. “He must not obtain it first.”

“And what is _it_?” asked Fen’Asha. “He mentioned a Well of Sorrows…”

“He did,” said Solas.

“I am uncertain of what he refers,” said Morrigan.

“He still seeks an _eluvian_?” asked Cassandra, stepping cautiously into the vestibule.

“I don’t know,” said Morrigan.

“Whatever it is, Well of Sparrows or scary mirror, we need to stop him from getting it,” said Sera. She followed Cassandra forward.

Fen’Asha nodded and followed the advancing group, eventually reaching a grand courtyard overgrown by foliage. It slurped at the sunlight spilling in from above, eagerly reaching for the sky overhead. The square seemed to lead to the rest of the Temple, with a flight of stepping-stone treads framed by two immense Mythal effigies pared from gold.

There were two pillars at the centre of the courtyard, with stones and tiles surrounding them.

Fen’Asha approached, padding carefully. It appeared to be some kind of puzzle, maybe some kind of trap. She tapped at one of the tiles on the edges and it glowed a brilliant blue as long as the pressure of her bare foot was upon it.

“The temple’s magic is still strong,” said Morrigan. She batted the tile with the edge of her staff, finding its radiant response amusing.

“There are markings on the pillars,” said Solas. “ _Atish’all vir abelasan_.”

“Huh?” said Sera.

“It means enter the path of the Well of Sorrows,” said Solas.

“You could’ve just said that,” said Sera.

“And it says something about knowledge,” said Morrigan.

“Yes, humble…” said Solas.

“Or pure,” interrupted Morrigan. “Something _shiven_ , maybe…”

“ _Shivennen_ ,” said Solas.

“That’s…”

“Mythal’s supplicants would have first paid deference here,” said Solas. He clasped his staff tightly.

“Yes,” agreed Morrigan. “It would be wise to…”

“Follow their path,” interjected Solas. “The indication of the Well of Sorrows may be a noble foretoken.”

“Or it could be an evil sign,” said Morrigan. “A caution from the ancients.”

Solas frowned. “I do not…”

“Perchance this ritual will best serve us a way forward,” said Morrigan. “Perchance any risk is worth it.”

Solas tapped his staff against the side of the adjacent pillar. “Perchance,” he sighed.

“No way,” said Sera. “Rituals are bad. No perchance about it.”

Cassandra exhaled heavily, keeping her distance from the glowing blue of the tiles. “I don’t like it.”

“Should we just turn back?” said Morrigan in mock unease. “Maybe return to camp. Get some sleep.”

“Yes please,” said Sera.

Morrigan glared at her.

“Oh,” said Sera. “You’re joking. Don’t expect jokes from you.”

“We’ll be fine,” said Fen’Asha as she stepped ahead to the next tile. It glowed its blue response.

“I suggest not stepping anywhere you’ve stepped before,” said Morrigan. “This is the path of the gods.”

“Great,” said Sera. “Hope you don’t have to go to the bathroom.”

“Yes,” said Solas. “This is where they paid fealty to the gods. I have seen this…”

“In the Fade?” asked Sera.

“Only…” Solas began, glaring at the elf. “Only the reverential were permitted to trace this ground.”

“And then only in earnest meditation,” said Morrigan.

“Yes,” muttered Solas.

Fen’Asha made her way across the tiles, careful not to retrace her steps. The company watched her and she soon returned, the tiles aglow with sapphire magic.

Fen’Asha continued to walk across the tiles. Each tile she touched remained aglow in magic, the sight was beautiful to behold. She returned the ritual entrance, all the tiles vibrant with magic. A clattering sound followed and a set of doors nearby opened.

“Great, let’s go,” said Sera.

“We shall see what awaits,” said Morrigan.

They followed the stairs to the doorway and went through, finding an enormous passageway that led to another balcony. Fen’Asha pulled aside the vines and found a breathtaking statue of Fen’Harel. She stepped back to take in its magnificence. The carving was impeccable, with a slab of stone against it with a symbol engraved on it.

Fen’Asha clenched her prayer stone.

“Most curious,” said Morrigan.

“What do you mean?” asked Fen’Asha.

“This is the Dread Wolf,” said Morrigan. “He sealed your gods away. This would be…blasphemous.”

“Like a naked Andraste in the Chantry?” asked Sera with a chortle.

“Essentially,” said Morrigan.

“These statues scare harmful spirits,” Fen’Asha said. “My clan had use for them…”

“Perhaps I was misguided in thinking the elves above such picturesque fantasies,” said Morrigan.

“You cannot resist giving legend the weight of history,” said Solas. “The wise do not mistake one for the other.”

Morrigan crossed her arms. “Pray tell, Solas. Enlighten me. What is the meaning of this artifact?”

“There is none,” said Solas.

“Should be called Fun’Harel,” muttered Sera.

“Pardon me?” said Morrigan.

“Should be called Fun’Harel,” repeated Sera with more volume. “Like…the elven god of amusements and knickknacks and chocolates and whatever.”

“I hardly…” said Morrigan.

Sera crossed her arms indignantly. “You think you’re the only one who knows about all this elfy business?”

“We should move on,” said Morrigan.

“Yes,” Solas said.

“Sure,” said Sera. “Someone finally says something smart and we’re _moving on_. Sorry, Fun’Harel. Nothing for you today.”

Fen’Asha exhaled but followed Solas and Morrigan as they continued to press through the Temple. She swore she heard Cassandra giggling.

Solas and Morrigan exchanged a look as they walked onward.

“What do you know of Mythal?” said Fen’Asha when the group had settled down.

“She was venerated as a goddess,” said Morrigan. “But…such is history. It often plays bard with the truth. The old gods were nothing more than dragons, rising as Archdemons to die.”

“You admit you know nothing, yet dismiss her so enthusiastically?” said Solas, inching up to the conversation.

“No,” said Morrigan. “But I question her divinity. I am uncertain Mythal refers to even one entity. ‘Twas perhaps untold accounts distorted into one. She seems a replication of aspiration, not fact.”

“Something out of the Dalish tales, then?” said Solas.

Morrigan shrugged. “This is not the place for old stories.”

Solas smirked. “I quite agree, especially if the teller of those tales is…tentative.”

“Yes, well,” began Morrigan. “All roads lead to the same purpose. Mythal in the great beyond, banished by the Dread Wolf, imprisoned beyond the Fade. Or maybe they were sovereigns slain by Tevinter. Who can say?”

“Yes, who can say?” echoed Solas.

Before Morrigan could respond, Samson appeared in the room before them. His arms were aloft and he rained debris on the Inquisition. They scattered and Red Templars burst from the shadows.

Samson screamed orders and cut across the enclosure, vanishing from view.

Fen’Asha and the Inquisition turned to the Red Templars, engaging them ferociously. She scattered her magic, cutting down the cluster in a blast of frenzy and energy. Cassandra sliced into the stiffness of the Red Templars, carving away with her sword and bashing her shield into the few heads that dared venture her way. And Sera did her damage from a distance.

It took mere seconds, but Samson was already up and out of the area. They trailed him up the stairs but he was gone. A gaping hole had been blown into the Temple floor and the area below was visible through the black smoke.

“Down there,” screamed Sera. “He went down there.”

“Wait,” said Morrigan. “If it is the Well of Sorrows we seek, we must pursue another route.”

“What do you mean” said Fen’Asha, staring down into the hole.

“The petitioner’s path,” said Morrigan. “As before.”

“I agree with Morrigan,” said Solas. He looked ahead to the courtyard that stretched beyond the hole.

“There is value in what lies beyond,” said Morrigan. “Value beyond what we know.”

“Then we move,” said Fen’Asha, guiding the company around the hole and through to the grounds on the other side.

Morrigan pulled at Fen’Asha’s cloak as they moved. “I…read more in the chamber than I revealed,” she whispered. “A great boon is given to those who use the Well of Sorrows. But the price…”

Fen’Asha raised her eyebrows.

“I am willing to pay that price,” said Morrigan.

“Oh?” said Fen’Asha, nearly stopping.

“My priority is your cause, Inquisitor,” said Morrigan. “But, this opportunity…”

“What exactly did the altar say?”

“The term I decrypted was _halam’shivanas_ ,” said Morrigan. “It denotes the loss of something personal for duty’s sake. Yet for those who attended this temple, a worthy exchange.”

“And the gain?” asked Fen’Asha.

“The rituals may point the way,” said Morrigan, indicating the appearance of several altars dotting the landscape before them.


	23. Pt.1 - Solas: Elvhen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Winter she'll howl at the walls, tearing down doors of time. Shelter as we go. And promise me this, you'll wait for me only scared of the lonely arms. That surface far below these birds, and maybe, just maybe I'll come home. Who am I, darling, to you? Who am I to tell you stories of mine? Who am I?  
> \- “Promise” Ben Howard

The Petitioner’s Chamber was unspoiled, surprisingly, and there were few signs of its antiquity. The varnish was tattered on the walls and the place was coated in thick dust, but the ceiling towered as proudly as the terrace before them and ancient murals lined the walls depicting Elvhen figures on…griffons.

Fen’Asha walked the Chamber, gazing up at the murals. It wasn’t long before she felt the air change, like dozens of eyes were peering at her at once. She raised her hand, signaling to the others.

A hooded figure stood on the terrace above and his hand was also raised. He met Fen’Asha’s gaze, his vallaslin identical to hers.

She looked around and saw that she was surrounded by a dozen or more archers, arrows pointed at her, indicating her position on the lower ground.

“You are unlike the other invaders,” said the hooded figure. He looked her over.

She bowed her head slightly, fingers tightening on her staff.

“You stumble down our paths at the side of one of our own,” continued the figure. “And you bear the mark of magic. Familiar…”

The Anchor responded, ripping through her palm with green fury. She clenched her fist.

“How can this be?” said the hooded figure. “What is your connection to those who first disturbed our slumber?” His voice rang through the chamber.

“They are my enemies,” said Fen’Asha. “And yours.”

The hooded elf creased his brow and waved at the archers. They lowered their bows, unset their arrows.

Fen’Asha scanned the area, spotting some of the elves as they ducked back into the shadowy alcoves. She kept her grip tight on the staff nevertheless.

“I am Abelas,” he said. “We are sentinels, tasked with standing against those who would trespass on sacred ground.”

Fen’Asha nodded and introduced herself.

“We wake only to fight,” continued Abelas. “Our numbers are cut down with each invasion, with each trespass. But I know what you seek. You wish to drink from the _Vir’Abelasan_.”

“What is the _Vir’Abelasan_?” asked Fen’Asha.

“It is not for you,” said Abelas. “It is not for any of you. It is a path, walked only by those who have toiled in Mythal’s favour.”

“You are ancient elves…” ventured Fen’Asha.

Abelas nodded, pacing the area on the terrace.

“From before the Tevinter destroyed Arlathan?” she asked.

“The shemlen were not responsible,” said Abelas. “We warred on ourselves. By the time the doors to this sanctuary closed, our time was at an end. Now, we wake only when called. The world is more and more foreign…”

Fen’Asha sighed. This was unexpected. The pattern on Abelas’ face was her own, her vallaslin. It was her mother’s. The same.

Silence lingered in the Chamber and Abelas shuffled. Both parties seemed uncertain.

“Solas?” said Fen’Asha after the moment lingered.

“What shall I say?” Solas replied. “Shall I sway his intentions from a millennia of service by virtue of shared blood? He lacks the power…”

“We’ve lost everything,” broke Fen’Asha. “Our people…they need you…”

“ _Our_ people?” sneered Abelas.

Fen’Asha gulped at the familiar words, the familiar inflection.

“You are not my people,” said Abelas. “And to make matters worse, you have invaded our sanctum as readily as the shemlen.”

“We’ve respected this place as best we could,” said Fen’Asha.

Abelas nodded. “But you are still trespassers, even if you have followed the rites of petition.”

“We have done our best,” repeated Fen’Asha. She stepped closer, looking up to the terrace.

Abelas sighed. “You have shown respect to Mythal,” he said. “If these others are your enemies, we will aid you. When this is finished, you must leave and never return.”

“There is no reason to fight these sentinels,” said Solas.

“Consider carefully,” said Morrigan. “The Well may have its uses…”

Fen’Asha shook her head. “No, I accept the offer,” she said.

“Then you will be guided to those you seek,” said Abelas. “You shall not despoil the _Vir’Abelasan_. You shall not have its secrets, even if I must destroy it myself…”

“You wouldn’t,” shouted Morrigan.

Abelas glared at her, his anger suddenly apparent on his face. He tightened and closed his eyes, detonating into a blast of smoke and magic.

Morrigan called out after him but he had vanished. She cursed and followed him, scaling the side wall to the terrace in a leap that found her planting her staff halfway up and vaulting over the edge. She ran a few more paces and shattered in a burst of purple. A dark bird emerged from the smoke that followed, sailing through the doorway after Abelas.

Fen’Asha called out to Morrigan but to no avail.

There was more silence until a great door creaked open and a small, worn-down elf emerged limping. She used a staff to steady her steps and made her way halfway toward the Inquisition, touting an enormous book.

“ _Mythal’Enaste_ ,” the elf said before she turned around and wobbled back through the door.

“Guess we’re following grandma,” said Sera.

“Show some respect,” said Solas. He was the first to follow the old elf’s slow steps through the doorway.

Fen’Asha sighed, finding a lavish gallery on the other side. There were elaborate mosaics on the walls, with gold and precious metals adorning the surfaces.

Soon, she came upon the mosaic that stood for Fen’Harel. His diamond eyes penetrated her, the wolf a majestic figure in dark. His coat full, mouth locked in a grin and ready to bite.

“How could the elves worship such gibberish?” said Cassandra as she faced a mosaic symbolizing Elgar’nan.

“We can always ask our hosts,” Solas said.

“ _Penshra. Ghilas vellathan_ ,” shouted the old elf.

“I believe we are falling behind,” said Solas.

Fen’Asha drifted from her place by Fen’Harel, eager to see more and take in more of the mosaics. She followed the others as best she could, with her neck craning to see all the wonders inside.

Soon, they stepped through an opening and to a shallow pool. The sentinels were near and before long battle erupted with the Red Templars. Arrows carved into the air, whistling into their enemies. The Red Templars fought back with lumbering, strong movements. Swords clashed against steel, noise burst against noise as the violence spread.

“ _Vir sumeil_ ,” the old elf said. She had moved far ahead somehow.

“I don’t know what she’s….” said Fen’Asha.

“She’s old,” said Sera. “Nobody knows what they’re saying. Oldies with their old selves…and their old…things.” She snickered to herself.

Fen’Asha cocked her head.

“And their old…farts,” said Sera. She chuckled again and stopped moving.

“Something wrong?” said Fen’Asha.

Sera shook her head. “Just got a bit lost with myself,” she said, blinking.

“ _Delltash_ ,” the old elf shouted.

“We’re behind again,” said Solas.

The old elf woman turned around, looking at the Inquisition as they lagged behind her awkward steps. She shook her head, pointing a crooked finger at Sera and shaking her head more vigorously.

“See?” said Sera. “Told you.”

 Fen’Asha tried not to giggle.

The old elf led them up a flight of stairs and stopped before a wall. She cleared her throat before waving a hand. The wall slid open with a swishing sound, a sort of technology the Inquisition had never seen before. Behind the wall was a small alcove with a painting of a golden halla adorning the opposite wall. Underneath the painting was a chest.

The old elf pointed at the chest and coughed noisily. Her eyes widened and she looked around before gulping.

Sera burst into laughter.

Fen’Asha smirked and closed her eyes tight before pointing at the chest. “For us?”

The old elf woman gulped again and nodded, rolling her eyes.

“ _Ma serannas_ ,” said Solas as they entered the alcove and opened the chest.

There were gifts of gold within, small figurines of Mythal and other elven gods. Fen’Asha tucked the small golden Fen’Harel in her hand, clutching it before packing it away. She bowed at the old elf, who was staring off into a corner.

“ _Ma serannas_ ,” repeated Solas.

The old elf kept staring into the corner.

“ _Ma serannas_ ,” said Fen’Asha.

The old elf turned a finger in her ear.

“Do you have any pudding?” shouted Sera.

The old elf’s eyes widened and she scowled, pointing once more at the troublesome rogue. She shook her head and dawdled down another corridor, stopping to point to the ground when the Inquisition started to follow.

“I think this is where she leaves us,” said Fen’Asha.

Battle raged below, answering their questions. The old elf woman picked up her pace and was gone before the Inquisitor spotted the _eluvian_ shimmering in the courtyard below.

“The Well of Sorrows,” said Solas as he drew near the ledge that overlooked the square. “Mythal endures…”

Samson was below, directing his cluster of troops and shouting at the top of his lungs. The Red Templars looked over a slaughter, with the corpses of dead sentinels spread before them.

Fen’Asha clenched her teeth and leapt before she knew it, jumping from the ledge Solas leaned against and plunging right in the middle of the Red Templar company. Right next to Samson. She clutched her staff, eyes ablaze.

Samson took a few steps back, cursing as he nearly tumbled over a rock. “You…”

The rest of the Inquisition took a less direct route, stalking down the stairs with weapons drawn. Sera tucked an arrow into her bow, walking sideways across the flagstones toward Fen’Asha.

“You don’t know when to quit,” said Samson. “I should’ve known you’d follow us to this hole.”

“This is over, Samson,” said Cassandra, her sword glinting.

“This isn’t over, you bitch,” shouted Samson. “Corypheus seeks…”

“Corypheus seeks death,” snarled Fen’Asha. “Nothing more awaits him.”

Samson scoffed. “You can’t stop him,” he said. “You think this Well will help you? Even if you drink, you will never know his wisdom. Never match his power. Never…”

“Sounds like you’ve got a thing for Corypheass,” said Sera. “I’ve heard enough.”

“Jokes,” said Samson. “You and your _jokes_.”

“You seek power,” said Fen’Asha. “But power has limits.” She fished for Dagna’s rune and raised it dramatically.

Samson’s eyes widened when he saw it and he drew backward, finally falling over that rock. When he rose, his armour was shattering under cracks of red lightning. He was screaming, scorching, sweltering in magical flames.

Fen’Asha smirked, showing her teeth.

“Kill them,” said Samson, struggling on the ground as if he was trying to pull his pants up.

The effort of the Red Templars was meagre and Fen’Asha destroyed them before they raised their weapons, a bolt of orange fire bursting from her staff. Burned flesh and scorched metal cursed the air, bodies drowning in flame and rolling on the stone before their lives were extinguished forever.

Samson struggled to his feet, struggled to raise his weapon.

Fen’Asha set upon him, raising her staff over her head.

“You bitch,” said Samson. He was backing away, sword half up, eyes smoking.

Sera raised her bow.

“You…” Samson was wheezing.

She loaded an arrow.

“Can’t…” Samson stumbled again.

Sera smiled, releasing the arrow.

Samson screamed as the arrow hit him in the upper thigh, tearing through the meat of his leg with the sliver of steel burying itself several inches inside. He toppled, dropped to his knees, let his weapon fall. “Not…the…fucking…well…”

“Hold him,” said Fen’Asha. “He sees justice at Skyhold.”

Cassandra pressed her sword against the back of Samson’s neck and forced her knee into his back, pinning him to the ground. “Ass,” she spat.

There was movement near the Well of Sorrows and Fen’Asha turned to see what was behind the commotion.

Abelas had created a staircase and was moving toward the Well. A bird spun overhead, turning and turning before reaching the lip of the staircase in a puff of violet. Morrigan appeared again, crouching with her staff firmly in her grip. She eyed Abelas as he came to a stop before her.

Fen’Asha raced toward the Well, with Solas and Sera in tow.

The pool lay rippling under the activity and Abelas stood protective, with Morrigan moving in on him. The _eluvian_ sat behind, ominously quiet.

“He seeks to destroy the Well,” said Morrigan.

“You have desecrated the sanctum,” huffed Abelas. “This must be kept from your avaricious fingers, you unworthy witch.”

“You are a fool,” said Morrigan, stepping forward. “You would leave your legacy to rot…”

“That’s enough, Morrigan,” said Fen’Asha.

Morrigan stopped her progress and faced the Inquisitor. “You had better know what you are doing.”

Abelas sighed. “Do you know what you seek?” he asked.

“This Well offers power, Inquisitor,” reasoned Morrigan. “Power that can be turned against Corypheus. Can you afford to lose it?”

“Please,” Abelas said. “The servants of Mythal passed their knowledge on through this. This is all we were. All we knew. Lost forever.”

“You cling to scraps,” spat Morrigan.

“There are other places in this world,” said Solas. “More to do. Your people linger still.”

“There are Elvhen such as you?” said Abelas.

“There are,” said Solas.

Fen’Asha inhaled, watching Solas engage Abelas as an equal. Watching Abelas engage her as an outsider, engage Morrigan as an enemy…

“There is…a virtue in you I cannot deny,” said Abelas.

Solas bowed his head.

“You wish the _Vir’Abelasan_ to fight your enemy?” said Abelas.

Morrigan clutched her staff.

“If you would…permit….” Fen’Asha began.

“There is no permission to obtain,” said Abelas. He turned from the mouth of the Well of Sorrows.

“What do you mean?” said Fen’Asha.

“One obtains the right,” he said. He turned for the steps. “Brave this is you must. But know this: you shall be bound to the will of Mythal.”

“There is no such thing,” said Morrigan.

“Show contempt if you must,” said Abelas. “I am weary.”

Fen’Asha watched Abelas pause at the precipice of the stairs. “What happened to Mythal?” she ventured. “Did Fen’Harel…”

“The Dread Wolf had nothing to do with her murder,” said Abelas.

“Murder?” Morrigan startled.

“She was slain, betrayed by those who destroyed the temple. The Well remains. She remains in a sense,” he started towards the steps.

 “You are leaving?” Fen’Asha asked.

“Our duty ends. Why persist?”

“There is more for you to do, _lethallin_ ,” said Solas.

“Perhaps there are places the shemlen have not touched,” Abelas replied with a hint of hope. “It may be that only _uthenera_ awaits us. If fate is kind.”

“You could join us,” said Fen’Asha. She felt torn between the Well and the departing Abelas.

“ _Malas amelin ne halam, Abelas_ ,” Solas said.

Abelas nodded and descended the stairs slowly as Fen’Asha turned to Solas.

“His name means sorrow,” Solas said. “I hope he finds a new name.”

Morrigan sighed impatiently. “The eluvian is intact,” she said. “I was correct on that account, at the very least.”

“Can Corypheus use it?” said Fen’Asha.

“Not without the Well,” said Morrigan, slinking along the edge of the water in the Well. “In truth, I did not expect the well to feel so hungry”

“Be careful,” said Fen’Asha.

“I am willing to pay the price,” said Morrigan. She crouched, surveying the glimmering surface. She rubbed her neck, finger tracing her own flesh. “I am best suited to use its knowledge in your service.”

“Or to your own ends,” said Solas.

Morrigan’s hands ran from her neck to her front, tracing the line of her necklace down to the ridge of her chest. “You know nothing of my ends,” she said absently.

“You are a glutton drooling at the sight of a feast,” said Solas.

Morrigan’s hands traced from the ridge of her chest down to her sides now, as if she was holding the sides of her ribs closed. She rose finally, stretching in front of the doe-eyed Inquisition. “Of those present…I alone have the training to make proper use of this.”

Sera scratched her head.

“Let me drink,” said Morrigan.

Fen’Asha furrowed her brow.

“She is right to seek the power,” said Solas. “But that is all.”

“She’s…” began Sera. “Oh, bugger it.”

“Listen,” said Fen’Asha as she drew near the water herself. “That’s not just knowledge from the ancient priests. It’s their will.”

“How would you know such a thing?” Morrigan said with disbelief.

Fen’Asha closed her eyes, the water rippled with words. “The collective will of the priests puts anyone who drinks under a compulsion. Can’t you feel it?”

 “That… would match the legends,” Morrigan cocked her head. “I…would still use the well, regardless of its words.”

Fen’Asha nodded. “Be cautious.”

Morrigan grinned and held her sides again, rubbing up and down and up and down before traipsing carefully into the shimmering pool. It rose to her waist and she closed her eyes, her mouth contorted in delight. She moaned noisily as the water seemed to rush her, surrounding her, bubbling to her and caressing her. Waves grew, foam formed. She cried out.

Fen’Asha closed her eyes again as the water rose to a crescendo, immersing the witch in the middle of the pool.

Sera stared.

Soon Morrigan emerged only to tumble in a heap at the side of the pool.

Fen’Asha crouched by her body, feeling for a pulse, then Morrigan started and jerked, convulsing in place for a moment before coughing herself back to consciousness.

“ _Ellasin selah_! _Vissan… Vissanalla…_ ” she sputtered.

“Morrigan?” said Fen’Asha, kneeling beside the soaking wet witch.

Morrigan huffed and panted. “Indeed? Indeed.”

“Are you…alright?” asked Fen’Asha.

“Do not strain your eyes overmuch,” said Morrigan. She touched the sides of her face. “I am intact.”

“That’s true,” said Sera.

“There is much to see…and do…” said Morrigan. She tried to reach her feet.

There was a terrible noise and magic began to fill the area once more, only this time from behind. Corypheus appeared, stalking through the opening on the other side of the courtyard.

The _eluvian_ glimmered.

“Run,” shouted Fen’Asha, directing toward the mirror as Corypheus took to the air with a gushing sound.

The Inquisition stormed through the glass, Cassandra last with Samson held by the scruff of his neck.

The mirror burst in a plume of water and mist, with only Corypheus’ shadow remaining behind them in the courtyard.


	24. Pt.1 - Solas: Desire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know you, but I want you all the more for that. Words fall through me and always fool me and I can't react. And games that never amount to more than they're meant will play themselves out. Take this sinking boat and point it home. We've still got time.  
> \- “Falling Slowly” Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova

They landed in a heap in Skyhold.

Solas caught Fen’Asha and she embraced him.

Whereas Sera embraced stone flooring.

Sunlight was piercing from the stained glass of the windows as the energy of Skyhold encompassed them. Peace. Quiet. Grace.

Morrigan raised her arms in a flourish and her eluvian ceased its radiance. She nodded and leaned against the nearby rock wall, catching her breath. “It is finished,” she said.

“It’s not,” said Sera, getting up. She strode to the middle of the room, staring into the blankness that was now the eluvian.

Cassandra pulled Samson roughly to his feet.

“You stay right there,” said Sera. She had an arrow trained on the witch.

“What are you…” spluttered Morrigan.

“About Mythal,” said Sera.

“You stupid girl,” said Morrigan. She petitioned the Inquisitor with outstretched palms.

Sera loosed the arrow and it sailed all of three feet before Morrigan caught it with an outstretched palm and crushed it into wood chips and feathers.

“I do expect an explanation,” said the witch. “And do not wait overlong, girl. My serenity wears thin in light of your self-indulgent belligerence.”

“You…you’re,” Sera attempted.

“Yes?” said Morrigan. She raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve been steeping around in shitty pools is what,” said Sera.

“ _Shitty_ pools?” Morrigan said. She waved her hand. “I tire of you.”

Fen’Asha stayed Sera’s hand from reaching for another futile arrow.

Morrigan brushed by the elf and headed for the door. “There are more pressing concerns than assuaging the rank concerns of an insignificant reprobate with an appalling haircut.”

“Haircut?” spouted Sera. “That all you got, you dippy minger?”

Morrigan was in the courtyard by then and the Inquisition turned to face the rogue and her bow, still extended despite lacking an arrow.

“She was the one wading around in that…place,” said Sera. “She…I was testing her. See if she was still real. Or something.”

“To see if she was _real_?” said Fen’Asha, carefully tucking Sera’s lost arrow into the quiver.

“Yeah?” said Sera. “Could’ve been replaced by some she-beast from the sea.”

“And the arrow would’ve…” Cassandra began after swatting a chortling Samson on the top of the head.

“I heard that if you’re possessed, the demon will defend itself against an attack,” said Sera. She lowered the bow. “So sense being sense and arrows being arrows, it’s…”

“Yes?” said Fen’Asha.

“Stop laughing, Solas,” said Sera.

“Enough,” said Cassandra. “We have business. I will assist him to his cell and inform Leliana of our location.” She lugged Samson out of the room.

Sera watched as the door closed again, then scanned Solas and Fen’Asha as they drew closer together. “No way,” she said.

Solas raised an eyebrow.

“You two probably want to be alone,” she huffed. “Fine. I’m not interested in watching you go all legs over tits for each other.”

Fen’Asha giggled.

“I’m off to get drunk,” Sera announced. She dribbled toward the door then turned again.

“Bye, Sera,” Solas said.

“Yeah, yeah.” The door slammed behind her.

 

Rather than take up space in the storage area with the creepy mirror, Solas and Fen’Asha elected to seek solace in the Inquisitor’s quarters. She even had a lovely vintage of wine, one that she knew Solas enjoyed, and she poured two hearty glasses as he prepared a roaring fire.

Fen’Asha poured herself into a robe and sat next to Solas on her plush rug, quite a find in the Orlesian shops. Josephine insisted she have at least some comforts.

“Skyhold feels…unique with so many away,” said Solas. A large swath of the Inquisition was still holding operations in the Arbor Wilds.

Fen’Asha nodded, nuzzling up to him. She sipped her wine and gazed at the crackling fire. The stars gathered an audience outside her open window, the breeze catching her skin.

“You look ravishing,” said Solas.

“ _Vhenas_ ,” she teased. “Have you been reading Cassandra’s romance novels?”

“I…”

“The gallant hero and her attentive companion before a roaring fire, wine in hand, fresh from the rigours of battle, ready to…”

“ _I_ am the attentive companion?” He raised an eyebrow.

“We can’t both be the gallant hero,” she said.

“Surely,” Solas said, eyes glimmering in the firelight.

“Perhaps the hero can reward you with a song,” said Fen’Asha. She scoured the room, discovering the seemingly decorative lute occupying a corner near a tower of books.

“I…”               

Fen’Asha smirked and sipped her wine, eyeing Solas, remembering Abelas, memories of the ancient elf prodding her suspicions. She noted their similarities; the eyes, the features, the timelessness…

“Is something troubling you?” Solas said. He brushed her hair with his fingers.

“No,” she said vaguely.

“Are you quite sure?”

“I was…I was thinking of Abelas,” said Fen’Asha.

“Should I be jealous?” asked Solas.

“He was something, wasn’t he?”

“I _am_ jealous,” said Solas.

“No, I mean…” Fen’Asha closed her eyes, the tenderness of Solas’ touch stretched through time.

“Yes,” said Solas. “The temple was a wonder. I have never discovered anything like it before.”

“Truly?” she asked.

“Truly,” he confirmed.

She settled into his hold, his fingers still parsing her hair.

“The power…” he began. “What of the power of the Well once Corypheus is no more? Morrigan is a concern, is she not?”

“Perhaps,” said Fen’Asha. “The war proved things will never be the same. I shall do my best to move the world forward.”

“You would risk everything?”

Fen’Asha nodded.

“What if the future isn’t better?”

She set the wine glass down. “Then we must see what went wrong and try again.”

He frowned. “You make it sound so simple.”

“There is no better alternative,” she said. “Have hope and move forward.”

Solas sipped his wine. “You are right. Again. I thank you.”

“For…?”

“For defying my foolish expectations,” he said. “You have offered hope where there is none, reawakened an old heart from its unfortunate slumber.”

“Oh, have I?” Fen’Asha said. “I think we need more wine.”

Solas sighed as she stood and refilled their glasses, her form visible under the gossamer robe.

She sat beside him again, sipping from her glass.

“There is so much to consider,” he sighed. “Corypheus has cost us much. The Temple of Mythal did not deserve such a fate. The Orb, the power…what can…?”

“Solas?” she bustled.

“Yes?”

“You know pessimism gets me hot,” she said. She nudged him, inviting his hands to reach inside her robe, to tug at its cords, to loosen its hold on her form.

“It is my nature,” he said. He looked at her, scaling her body with his eyes.

She scooted closer and her wine glass teetered, some of the red dripping on the white rug. She chuckled softly, mentioning how Josephine would kill her.

Solas grinned and pressed her to the soft carpet, kissing her.

Her eyes swam to the wine, which was nearby in a small pool.

He pulled at her robe, opening it from below and letting her flesh drink in the night air and the firelight. He gazed at her, running fingers along her sides.

She moaned when he let wine from his glass slip, trickling down to her bare stomach. Cool redness, drifting and dripping and pouring gradually.

He bent, licking the cool liquid from her soft skin and snaking a line to her breasts. He loosened the robe further, catching her flesh as it threatened to burst from her snug bra. He pulled at the material, revealing her breasts and their pert nipples. He grinned as he poured more wine, drizzling her body in sensual red. He smiled as he stilled the wine in its travels, cooling it frozen with a drift of magic.

She gasped, the wine clinging to her like ice. She moaned as his warm tongue soaked through the icy red, squirming as he flickered his tongue this way and that, and manipulated the temperatures of the wine as it sprinkled and drenched and decanted.

“Do you want me to stop?” he said as she clutched his hands.

“More,” she said, shaking her head. “More.”

He kissed her strong, letting her taste the wine, letting her feel the combination of temperatures all at once. He drizzled more wine on her nipples, creating the same icy effect with his magic and warming her with his tongue.

She stirred under him, groaning.

He took the hard nub of her nipple in his mouth, pinching at it slightly as wine filtered from his mouth and walled the outstretched flesh.

She moaned loudly and could stand it no longer, rolling him over and straddling his lap as he chuckled.

He craned up, eager to taste more as she slipped the robe off her shoulders and tossed the remains of her bra to the floor.

She shook her head. “My turn.”

“Inquisitor,” he sighed. He leaned back, hands behind his head.

She snapped her fingers, eyes shining. A tiny flame burst into existance between her fingertips and disappeared in a puff of snow, the flakes suspended above the palm of her hand.

He smiled. “Impressive.”

“What’s your pleasure, _ma Vhenas_?” she cooed. “Hot…or cold?”

“Cold.”

“Wise choice, Solas,” she cooed. She cupped him under his tunic, her hand cooling.

He winced.

“I may fight with fire,” she said. “But I fuck with ice.”

He exhaled, feeling the chill as her lips drew near. “Most wolves do…” he whispered.

She kissed him hard, hand still cupping his undercroft.

“Fen’Asha…”he moaned.

She felt subdued at the sound of her own name, the sound of it from his lips, from his mouth. She sighed in response, wriggling her hips.

He stared up at her.

“Say it again,” she demanded.

“ _Ar lath ma,_ Fen’Asha _,”_ he said, pulling his jawbone necklace off.

“Solas,” she uttered as her fingers surged with frost.

 


	25. Pt.1 - Solas: Pride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pride can stand a thousand trials. The strong will never fall. But watching stars without you, my soul cried. Heaving heart is full of pain… The aching. 'Cause I'm kissing you. I'm kissing you.  
> \- “Kissing You” Des’ree

With the Inquisition gone in the Arbor Wilds, Skyhold was strangely quiet and Fen’Asha found herself free of her normal duties.

Solas was quick to make use of the opportunity. He guided Fen’Asha to the stables, selected a steed for a journey into the Ferelden grasslands. They rode quietly, taking in the scenery and for once, forgetting the Inquisition. The weight of the world was no longer a burden, at least for a time.

Solas rode with pride, tall in the saddle with Fen’Asha clutching his hips. When they stopped, he was attentive and affectionate. They hunted, cooked, warmed each other near fires under watchful moons. They read to each other, talked of the Fade, talked of the Dalish, talked of Fereldan grass, and made love tenderly, leisurely.

Despite this, Fen’Asha sensed nervousness in Solas. She knew the destination, but he was elusive when asked about the intent. She tried not to let the apparent lack of purpose eat at her, along with the needling suspicions of timelessness that had never been negated. But Fen’Asha relented, preferring the dream of a simple life turned to reality.

They arrived in Crestwood, traveled past the village to the meadows. They heard the low howl of a wolf, followed by a responsive chorus. The pack was near.

Fen’Asha tugged on Solas and asked if there was time to look.

He considered looking in the direction of the howls. “I believe I can locate them, _Vhenan_ ,” he said.

He led the horse up a steep crest, secured it and Fen’Asha hopped down, eager.

She went to the ridge. The meadows lay before them, the Black Fens. She held her prayer stone and smiled, surveyed the view. And then she saw them, not far from the cliff. She waved him over, pointing below.

He crouched beside her, observing.

The wolves were chasing down a ram. It bleated helplessly as the black creatures swarmed, dark shadows on white, but the prey broke away. One wolf pulled ahead of the pack, ran alongside the beast, and summarily crunched down on the ram’s neck. They went down in a cloud of dust, but the wolf held strong. Crimson splayed on the white. Crimson splayed on the black. The ram stopped struggling.

The wolf released its hold on the neck and moved aside. Two wolves emerged from the pack, ebony shadows approaching the meat.

Fen’Asha breathed. She watched, green eyes glistening. The female was closer, she was smaller than her mate, her muzzle slender and curved, her coat sleek black. “Oh, she is beautiful,” Fen’Asha said.

“She is,” Solas said, stroking hair back from her shoulder.

Fen’Asha smirked. “You’re not even looking at her.”

He cocked his head. “I am.”

She turned to him, raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?” she asked

He continued to play with her flaxen locks. “It is said, _Vhenan_ , when wolves mate it is for life,” he said.

“Solas,” she said. “What are you implying?”

He offered her his hand. “Come, my heart. We are almost there.”

 

Solas slowed the horse, alerting her to their destination. He settled at the base of a Fen’Harel statue, it was framed by the lavender glow of the sun. He held her as she dismounted and hitched the steed to the rock.

She contemplated the Dread Wolf. He lay attentive.

“Just a little further,” he said taking her hand, pulling her from the Wolf, leading her to the darkness of a cave. The sun set, forsaking them to the obscurity within. He guided her through the black, down a coiling path of rock.

She wondered at him, marveling how he knew the way through the ceaseless shadows and found the bottom of the passage. They emerged from the tunnel, the dusky glow of starlight revealing a solitary haven. The sound of the waterfall, filling the place with a serene atmosphere.

She smiled shyly, watching their bare feet in the grass, heart a flutter. She swung their arms innocently, feeling the goosebumps tingle across her flesh as he walked her to closer to the water.

“The Veil is thin here,” said Solas. “Can you feel it on your skin?” He faced her.

She turned to answer him, but got lost in his eyes, blue grey as the twilight sky above. She smiled, tilted her head in consideration. The atmosphere moved around them, pulsated softly.

“I was…trying to determine some way to show you what you mean to me,” he said. He cupped her cheek, traced his thumb across the line of her smile.

“I have a few ideas,” she said.

He removed his hand and she touched its absence. “I imagine you do,” he said. “But for now, my offering to you is the truth.”

The truth. She saw the weight of the words in his eyes. She glanced away, looking into the pool produced by the waterfall. It felt like the Well of Sorrows. It felt silent.

Their hands were entwined. They were connected, whatever the truth…

“You,” began Solas. “You are unique. I never expected to find someone who would draw my attention from the Fade. You have become more important to me than I could ever have imagined.”

She squeezed his hands, eyes glimmering in affirmation. “I feel the same for you.”

“Then I must tell you …the truth,” he said. He touched her face. “The _vallaslin_. I have seen things in my journeys. I know what these marks mean.”

“They honour elven gods,” she nodded.

He shook his head. “They are slave markings,” he said softly. “Or at least, they were in the time of ancient Arlathan.”

She turned from his touch. “Keeper Lavellen said...”

“A noble would mark his slaves to honour the god _he_ worshipped,” said Solas. He turned her face toward him. “After Arlathan fell, the Dalish forgot.”

She swallowed, touched the outline of the _vallaslin_.

“I am sorry,” he said.

“We try to preserve our culture and _this_ …” she sputtered. “This is what we keep.”

“For all the errors of time, the Dalish have still given their gifts to this world,” Solas said.

“Like what?” she said. She wanted to curse, stamp her feet.

“You,” he said.

She pulled back, refusing to meet his gaze. She was an outsider, an imperfect, flawed mistake.

“I….did not mean to hurt you,” said Solas.

Fen’Asha nodded, crushed by disappointment more than grief, shame more than harm.

“I know a spell,” he said. He clutched her hand. “I can remove the _vallaslin_.”

“I…”

“It was selfish of me to tell you,” said Solas. “I look at you and see what you truly are. You deserve more than what those inscriptions signify.”

Fen’Asha nodded again, looking at him finally. He was pure, without _vallaslin_. The Dread Wolf, watchful over them in the paleness. There was no _vallaslin_ honoring him. Then she too…

“Take the _vallaslin_ away.”

He moved closer, wavering slightly in his step. He guided her to sit at the water’s edge. He knelt before her, raising his palms, brightening his hands, extending his fingertips.

The warmth of his light pressed her and she felt her face glow as the _vallaslin_ melted into nothing, into memory, into cruel antiquity. She felt no different.

“ _Ar lasa mala revas_ ,” he said.

She smiled, touched her face, took in the smoothness.

He gazed at her, intensity flaring in his eyes. He closed his eyes, shook his head.

“What is it?” she said.

“You are so beautiful,” he said.

They touched, they kissed, they held each other at the water’s edge. Their energy sustained them. Solas melting into Fen’Asha, Fen’Asha melting into Solas, as left melts into right, as morning melts into night, they were one. Clinging and continuous in the elements, heat blossomed with cold beneath, a spring of light emerging, encompassing them like indistinguishable clouds.

She thought she was consumed, she thought she was on fire.

“Solas…” she thought she whimpered.

Then cold overtook the elements, oozing to the fore. She shivered, feeling it freeze, feeling the ice cluster in the waterfall, heard as its torrents ceased.

Solas was before her, standing. Frozen. A pillar.

He looked at her. He could’ve been miles away, even as his touch lingered.

She wondered, urging the feelings in their dissipation.

“I...am sorry,” she heard him say.

“Solas…” she breathed as his hand slipped away.

“I have distracted you from your duty,” she heard him say.

“ _Vhenas_?” she breathed as he walked backward, a moving column of ice.

“Please, _Vhenan_ ,” she heard him say.

She wanted to contain him as he continued to float away, wanted to scream, but instead, “What? Why? …What do you need?” she heard herself say, moving forward, too slow.

“We can find it together,” she heard herself say.

“No, we can’t,” she heard him say.

She couldn’t breathe, but she could move. She reached for him.

 _“Vhenan_ ,” she heard him say.

“Don’t….leave… I love you,” she heard herself say.

“You…” she heard him say. “In another world, another time…”

She reached for him again, the jawbone grazing sharp on searching fingertips as his form vanished into shadows.

“What about this one?” she heard herself say.

“I am sorry,” she heard him say. “I can’t.” And he was gone.

She watched the endless darkness, stared into the silence, frozen, empty, numb. 

She listened as the flood of sound returned. The waterfall now deafening in its cries, the mist soaking her aggressively, the grass stank of piss and bile and dead creatures.

She stepped forward, walked, faltered, fell.

She collapsed as the flood of emotions returned. She crumpled, sobs wrecked, misery fell. Hot fat tears fell on hard earth, fell on wretched useless hands. Her heaving breath wrenched her lungs to their boundaries. She couldn’t say his name…

Her throat caught rancid words, stopped her regrets, cursed herself as a slave, cursed him as a deserter.

Fen’Harel watched, burning, rumbling.

She wanted to call out to him. She couldn’t. Tears rolled down bare-face cheeks, down to the stinking grass and rotting earth she clutched with trembling fingers.

She did not feel the black encirclement from cold stone beyond, did not see the yellow eyes peering from beneath the waterfall, did not hear the forgiving barks, the pinching teeth chewing and filling themselves on the colours of her anguish.

She only saw the moon ablaze in her despair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that brings us to the end of Pride. I originally intended to put this up in parts, but I didn’t want to separate story in a series since it’s intended to stand together. And then putting in a heading just didn’t fit in the right place and blah-blah you don’t wanna hear all that… So you’re all stuck with this format instead!  
> Thanks to everyone following Fen’Asha’s tale so far. I appreciate every kudos, every book mark and all comments. Hugs for all!!!!  
> (づ￣ ³￣)づ  
> Hey wait! Don’t run away. I won’t really kiss you… maybe.  
> BTW not all my little song lyrics are particularly meaningful but anyone else watch Solavellen’s break-up scene to Des’ree’s Kissing You? If you time it just right he removes her vallaslin at the instrumental break and he gets that look in his eye when she’s singing “where are you now” and OMG! Gets me every time. Excuse me while I sit in a corner to cry.  
> (੭ ˃̣̣̥ ㅂ˂̣̣̥)੭ु ︵┻━┻･/  
> Ahem, anyway. Onward and upwards (maybe downwards) to Wolf! Hold on to my hand ma laths, we’s gonna get angsty, deliciously eat-Fen’Asha’s-tears-like-they’re-candy angsty! (ﾟ▽ﾟ*)ﾉ┳━┳


	26. Pt.2 - Fen: Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A man who's pure of heart and says his prayers by night, may still become a wolf when the autumn moon is bright. If you could only see the beast you've made of me. I held it in but now it seems you've set it running free. The saints can't help me now, the ropes have been unbound. I hunt for you with bloody feet across the hallow'd ground.  
> \- “Howl” Florence + The Machine

She kicked up wisps of ash as she struggled through grey earth.

At least she had the prayer stone. Fen’Asha clutched it and gasped, air finally filling her lungs as she staggered to a proper pace. Her eyes turned over the darkness, her ears heard the water, her mouth dried.

Solas…

She looked up, expecting the emerald lightning to guide her somewhere. She looked at her palm, expecting the emerald gash to speak to her. There was nothing, just the faint glimmer of yellow from behind the water. She found the entrance of the cave. Racing. Running. Roiling.

She refused to slow her pace as she took to the coiling cavern, winding with it as she went up and up away from the waterfall and the yellow glimmers and toward the crest of light that warmed the earth above.

The veil was thin.

“ _I am sorry_.”

The spirits were close, touching her as she raced.

“ _In another time…_ ”

They saw her tears, her distress.

“ _In another place…_ ”

She wiped her tears, knees weak, straggling to the top, to the earth, to the shimmering moon above, a crystal yellow eye beckoning her across the starry night canvas.

“ _It…must not be_.”

She fell, touched her face, lying on her side in the grass. The _vallaslin_ , the slave markings, the insistence.

Fen’Harel, encased and trapped in stone, lay above her. Alert. Apparent against the splash of black.

“ _Why are you investigating Fen’Harel_?”

The voice fuzzy, distorted. She stiffened as it echoed, as _he_ echoed. She wanted to say his name but the letters scrambled inside. She sought solace somehow, clutching at the grass, pulling herself closer to the stone paws on the rising rock.

“ _Did you resent it? The comparisons to…Fen’Harel_?”

Madness, wasn’t it? What was she thinking, the damned Inquisitor searching through the grass for a foothold, looking through the black ground for a hand up? What was wrong with her? She helped nations stand, helped slaves rise, helped people live. Could she not pull herself to her feet once more, stand in the distance and the unknown for herself? By herself?

“ _It is the symbol of the hunter’s skill to protect the clan from the Dread Wolf_.”

She struggled but she stood, knees buckling and telling her to fall again. She ignored their words, their curses. They insisted she tumble, teeter into despair. She insisted otherwise, clutched the prayer stone.

She hated this place. She cursed it and hoisted herself up to the rising rock, to the stone paws at its base. The snout looked down at her, looked toward her.

The horse moved forward. He’d left the horse. He was near.

She pushed past the horse and to the path, taking it as it turned up an embankment. Running, hunting.

Nothing. He was nowhere, a mere echo, a mirage in memory locked in another place and another time. Locked in impossibility.

Her pulse quickened suddenly as she returned to the horse, to the statue and its watchfulness. She leaned against it, once again near its paws and its distinction. She looked to it, waiting for the eyes to come to life and return her gaze. Waiting for her answers, clutching her prayer stone.

Silence reigned and her bitterness grew. Crestwood, the middle of nowhere. Dumped, ditched like a fool.

She was no slave. She was no Inquisitor. She wasn’t in love for the ages, locked in the Fade’s embrace, a star-crossed lover with a tempting suitor to call her own.

She did not have what her Mother and Father had. Her gift had been refused, shoved back, discarded. She was just another in a long line, another resting soul for his experiments. Another willing participant across years, across time, across places.

And he had made his excuse, his escape.

The wolves howled in the distance as she mounted her horse, determination spilling at her seams and tearing her apart. She sat high, sat ready to do what was necessary. She would return to duty, flee the nightmarishness of her own folly and stupid pride. Lock herself away, do the work, save the souls. She would show them, show _him_.

The wolves lapped at her heels as she rode.

Fen’Asha rode onward and upward, scattering herself to the wind and following the path back from the depths of the Black Fens. She had the pack, the supplies that remained, the water. She hunted when she needed to, satisfying her rising taste for meat.

“ _I have distracted you from your duty_.”

The horse’s rhythm guided her and she closed her eyes at times, drinking in the sun as it shone. Watching the birds, the fennec chasing. Watching the world slumber and wake in time, breathing.

Breathing as she tried to breathe. It had been a whirlwind romance. Had even they even been together a year? Why did she feel so weak? Why did it hurt so much?

“Ho there, outsider,” came a voice from the side of the road, breaking through her vague thoughts.

She watched as a haggard man in trailing rags emerged from a gully, waving his arms. She slowed her horse. She nodded.

“Ain’t seen much of outsiders in these parts,” the man said. “And such a pretty one, no less.” He bowed low.

“I am just passing through,” she said.

“Looks like you could use some company,” he said. He began to cough. “Could you use some company?”

She shook her hand. “No, thank you.”

“Pretty one such as yourself shouldn’t travel alone,” he murmured.

The bushes moved as more men joined him, all in tattered rags. One carried a cudgel over his shoulders and staggered this way and that, sweat touching his brow.

“I’m fine,” she said. She moved to kick her horse, but another man blocked the path with a sneer and a thick dagger.

“Think you better reconsider,” said the man. He gestured to his fellows and they moved toward her, a half dozen or more traipsing from the bushes at once.

“Perhaps you should reconsider,” she said. She pulled back her cloak, revealing the length of her staff.

The man holding the reins of her horse gasped and staggered back.

“A mage, is it?” said another.

She sneered and pulled the staff to her grip in a firm, speedy motion and the men scattered. Only the thug with the cudgel kept to his course, moving in on her as she eyeballed him.

“I’m not afraid of no mage,” he said as he raised the cudgel.

She lit him ablaze, a column of purity casting from the tip of her staff. It caught him in the jaw, blistering and burning his skin until his cries ceased and he clutched himself. He tried to hold his face together, tried to stop the melting and scorching flesh from dropping into the dirt. He thrashed, but his jaw dropped in sludge and his hair burned before he toppled forward.

“There’s more where that came from,” she snapped.

” _There is more for you to do_.”

The bandits struggled for a moment, flailing in different directions as her eyes stalked them. She fired warnings high above their heads until someone tugged at her cloak, jerking her from her mount and to the dirt of the path. She kicked.

Shouting covered her and the smell broke through, the grime and sweat of countless bandits overtaking her and pummeling her into the dirt and muck.

The emerald of her hand flashed, tore open and she felt the temptation all at once as they kicked and thrashed at her with their snarling teeth and spitting mouths. They cursed her as she closed her eyes and opened her palm. She thought she saw the green explode from within, thought she heard the screams of terror as the demons came to her aid.

She saw nothing. She heard nothing. All was blackness.

 

When she did return, she heard voices rumbling. It took time for them to clarify themselves, for words to form.

“She’s the Inquisitor,” someone was saying.

“The Inquisitor is a Dalish fucking elf,” someone else said. “Does she look like a fucking Dalish to you?”

“I don’t know,” said the first voice. “Does she look like a Dalish to you?”

“Andraste’s ass, I could just thrash you,” said the second voice.

“Don’t look at me like that,” said the first voice. “I know what I saw. She’s the Inquisitor. She’s a mage too. We shouldn’t be…”

“It’s…you’re…” the second man groaned.

“What?”

“Just,” said another voice. “I don’t know. Go check on the knife-ear.”

Fen’Asha scanned her surroundings. She was inside a tent, it seemed. The flap was closed. She was on a cot, a rugged one. Her hands were bound with crude rope and her legs were messily tied together. She smelled awful wine and licked her lips, tasting its foul remnants with her tongue. She bit her tongue, bringing herself back.

“ _You have broken rules of man and nature_.”

The flap opened and one of the men entered, a haggard looking thing with a beard that reached the middle of his chest and may have had a few bugs crawling in it. He coughed noisily and looked at her, eyes widening.

She stared at him, not willing to give him the satisfaction of a struggle.

“You’re awake,” he said.

She carried on her stare as he jerked her to a sitting position.

“You’ve caused us a lot of trouble,” he said. “Lost a good one out there, Larry. Just a few days away from retirement.”

She glared.

“You better be worth more than a damned horse,” He eyed her and touched her jawline.

She spit at him, catching him right under the left eye.

He wiped at the spittle with the end of his ragged sleeve and reared back, threatening to slap her with a filthy hand before settling down and resting against her shoulder. He almost nuzzled her.

She swallowed.

“You smell... Maybe your master misses you…” He brushed at her hair, thick foul fingers through her honey tresses. Heaving.

She tightened as he produced a silvery blade and pressed it against the back of her neck, pulling her hair away at the same time.

“Could cut your pretty little hairs,” he said. “Maybe.”

She shivered.

“ _You turned it into a killer_.”

His grubby hand snaked to her front, tore her blouse, reached inside her clothing, tugged at her breast, pulled. The knife rested against her neck, cold, ice. “Maybe,” he breathed into her ear.

“ _Perverted it against its purpose_.”

He held her breast, his hand caked in dust and grime.

She jerked away.

“Fucking knife-ear,” He muttered. “Trying to be nice. Make you nice.”

He held her face, hand caked in dust and grime, she attempted to jerk away again but he held firm.

She clenched her hands in the bindings.

He clutched her chin, squeezing it. “Usually they cry by now.”

“ _You tortured and killed my friend_.”

Emerald lightning flashed and the tent gleamed, the meagre candlelight curling in time to unheard rhythm.

Fen’Asha closed her eyes.

“ _You have nothing to fear, least of all from the Dread Wolf_.”

Howling rose, a great cadenced cry that filled the distance. Some of the men seemed to murmur outside, the ground growing unsettled. He stood, letting Fen’Asha’s chin rest.

“Release me,” she said.

He spun to face her, knife glimmering. He opened his mouth, revealing lines of yellowed tusks, crusted over with blotches of blackness and pieces of bleeding meat. He stepped to her again, turning his back to the mouth of the tent, to the noise of his men, to the increasing wail of the wolves.

She snapped her ropes, legs and arms alike, and pounced as he bent to her neck. The wolves outside grew in volume as she gnawed on his ear, tearing, ripping. She pulled and it severed, blood coursing down the side of his neck.

He toppled back, clutching the side of his head, his hand caked in crimson. He tumbled back, reaching the table with the candle, raising his blade.

“ _My apologies_.”

She sneered at him, spitting out the meat, blood on the corners of her mouth, trickling down her front, finding the line of her breasts and seeping through the torn blouse.

He lunged at her in desperate fury, the silver flashing before him.

She dodged to the side, letting his thrust pour him into the cot headfirst. She leapt on him, clawing with fingers, ripping, gnashing. The knife fell to the floor but she didn’t require the blade to slice him to ribbons, tearing at his skin and ripping him to bloody pieces as he thrashed and rumbled against her power.

She didn’t need her staff. Only her hunger.

The wolves howled outside.

She rose when she’d finished, on her knees above the gore-spattered man and his broken limbs, frayed clothing, torn flesh. Blood spurted from various holes in his corpse, tiny waterfalls, dripping and covering the bruising sheets.

She snarled, she stood, blood glazing her front, covering her rounded curves, dripping to her belly. She pulled at herself, the crimson covering her like she’d taken a bath in a Well.

She stepped outside, into the howling night, into the moon.

“ _I couldn’t hold back any longer_.”

A man toppled in front of her, clutching at his throat as red sprayed the side of the tent. He gurgled to his death, a heap of nothing below her.

She stepped into what was the camp, seeing the corpses piled in drenched, soaking remains.

She heard the howls and saw them, a cluster of black wolves circled, mouths dripping slick red, panting hot breath into the night.

One of the wolves, the largest one, pawed forward toward her. Yellow eyes, glittering teeth, calm.

She knelt, instinctively. Her pulse slowed, blood dribbling down her chin.

She bowed her head.

She closed her eyes, feeling warmth and roughness as the animal licked her exposed shoulder. She prayed, instinct settling in, as the wolf licked her face, chin, lips. Licked the blood, taking it from her, accepting the burden.

When she opened her eyes, it was regarding her.

She regarded it, reached for it, touched its snout.

“ _We must get back_.”

She gasped.


	27. Pt.2 - Fen: Mistake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A gift, a curse. They track and hurt. Say can you dream. In nightmares seems a million voices, silent screams where hope is left so incomplete. I'm running with the wolves tonight.  
> \- “Running With The Wolves” Aurora

The campfire flickered as Fen’Asha gathered her senses.

The wolf sniffed her and seemed to grin, a wet tongue panting. It strode away and she followed, with the other wolves looking at her. There was no sound apart from the crackle of the fire and her footfall as she walked across the blood-soaked grass.

Dead bandits littered the ground, tangled in gnawed arms and legs. Throats had been gnawed open, limbs had been chewed. Some of the bandits seemed to have died from pure fright, their eyes locked open, mouths agape in bloody shock.

Fen’Asha bowed at the wolf as it turned and faced her again. She looked to the shadows of wolves as they lined the camp, shadows against the moon. It reminded her of Solas’ mural.

She looked down at herself, her tattered clothing barely clinging to her blood-spattered body. She was quite the picture and she noticed bruises on her arms and legs. She feared what her face looked like and touched it, fingering the tenderness around her eye and wincing.

She was glad the bandits were dead.

She also needed a change of clothes, so she searched the corpses for something suitable. She settled on a body near the tent, one still wrapped in a rough tunic. He looked to be missing a leg, but that would have to suffice. She approached and tugged at the hem, towing part of the tunic loose. The movement was enough to send the corpse tumbling to the grass, which freed up the rest of the garment. She pulled it off and expertly shed her own ragged blouse before replacing it with the tunic. It was stank of the dead man’s grime and sweat, but it would have to do. It slipped from her shoulder, revealing yet another bruise in the firelight.

Her pack had apparently been torn apart by the bandits, with her supplies strewn over a small table on the other side of camp. She gathered what she could and put it in a coarse sack.

Fen’Asha spotted her horse in the darkness with the help of the wolf, who padded up to the steed and pawed at the earth beneath it. The horse wasn’t spooked in the slightest and it bowed its head in greeting.

She shook her head. Was this some kind of dream? She searched the sky.

The wolves gathered in a circle and followed her up the trail, with the big wolf jogging in front. He led the way, head tall, eyes blazing. They continued for days. She grew accustomed to their presence, never feeling fearful of their fangs or flashes of animal brutality.

It felt familiar. It felt like home. It felt like the Conclave, the Inquisition or Solas never happened. She was one of the pack again. Hunting with them again. Resting with them again. She could stay with them forever, among their soft fur, bloodied jowls, flashing fangs, and howls.

But all too soon, Skyhold loomed. It was then that the wolves drew back, watching her from the bushes by the side of the road. She watched as they faded, yellow eyes melting back into shadows, white grins drawn inside dark mouths.

 

Cullen was the first to see her. He saw her enter, nearly lifeless on her steed with her arms and legs hanging at her sides. He called to her from his position on the ramparts and Skyhold erupted into action, troops and mages and merchants and horsemen running to her side. A gruff man pulled her down from the horse, took her to the most immediate medic.

Cullen scampered down, joining the throng as people knelt and prayed at the sight of their Inquisitor.

She was rested on a blanket, outside the mouth of a tent. Her eyes stinging in the sunlight, her bones aching by now. Whatever energy had sustained her in the wild was subsiding quickly.

“Maker’s breath,” said Cullen. He held her hand. “Inquisitor…”

She attempted a smile. “Solas and I….”

The medic was working quickly.

“Try not to speak,” said Cullen. He rested his hand on her forehead.

“She requires rest,” said the medic as she bustled with various herbal concoctions.

“Is anything broken?” Cullen said.

“I don’t believe so,” said the medic.

“Give me your cloak,” Cullen barked to a nearby soldier. He wrapped Fen’Asha in the softness and prepared to hoist her.

“I….” she stuttered.

“Don’t speak,” whispered Cullen.

“Come on,” directed the medic to a small group of others near the tents.

Cullen carried the Inquisitor up the great stairs, through the main hall, to her throne and through the doorway to her quarters. All the while, the fine members of the court stopped and stared. Varric rose on his tiptoes, trying to see over the crowd. Vivienne peered down from her alcove and guards alerted the other advisers of the Inquisitor’s return.

It took a few days for her to feel whole again. Her body ached for hours at a time and no amount of herbal combinations would assist. She grew to bear it, clinging to the pain like it was part of her. She stared around her room, empty when the medics and guards weren’t around. Hollow when she wasn’t visited by others in the Inquisition. Everyone had seen to her at some point. Cullen especially.

She didn’t ask about Solas, but he found her regardless. She watched as he strode toward her, eyes dotted with concern.

“Inquisitor,” he said.

She stared ahead.

“I am…sorry,” said Solas. “I should never have left you there.”

“Why?” she said.

“I don’t quite understand how to answer…”

“Why?

The room was cold, lifeless, heartless. She looked at her surroundings, the paintings dulled and the books empty. She looked at him, standing far away near her desk now.

“I want to know why,” Fen’Asha said.

“Why you were left…”

“Why you said what you said.”

He absently shifted papers on her desk. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be appropriate…”

“It would be helpful,” she said.

“Any answers I could provide would only lead to more questions,” said Solas. “That would benefit neither of us. The blame is mine, not yours. It was irresponsible and selfish of me…”

She sighed.

“Let that be enough,” he said.

“Enough?” she said. “Let that be enough? Do you hear yourself?”

Solas cocked his head, his expression betrayed nothing.

“You really don’t let anyone see behind that polite mask of yours…”

“You saw more than most,” he said, finally looking at her.

“I don’t know what I expected to hear,” she said. “I don’t know why I bothered. Just…”

“Because you are hurt,” he said. “Because I made a selfish mistake. Because you deserve better. Pick any reason.”

“Just go,” she said. “Go.” She raised her voice, blinked back tears as he turned and disappeared down the stairs.

 

She knew she had to leave her quarters. They were faceless now, empty, haunting.

She ran, ran to her staircase and out into the open. She ran past Josephine’s desk, slowing when she heard the adviser call her name.

Josephine sat in her chair, barely moving. She looked down as the Inquisitor approached.

Fen’Asha leaned against the edge of the desk, calming herself from the vitality formed by her run. She exhaled and greeted Josephine.

“I…I’m afraid we received word from Wycome,” said Josephine.

Fen’Asha stared.

“I…I am so sorry,” said Josephine as she passed Fen’Asha a letter.

_Ambassador Montilyet,_

_I regret to apprise you that a contingent of soldiers gathered from other cities in the Free Marches attacked Wycome and slew most of the elves within, including the entirety of the Dalish clan._

Fen’Asha faded away, the note tumbling to the ground, her legs shaking to the point of uselessness. She toppled, haze gathering in her eyes, an awful din crowding her ears.

There were other words, she saw. She scrambled to them, reaching for the paper that’d slipped in front of her, gathering it like a child, clinging to it.

… _the elves had rebelled_ … _all a tragic misunderstanding_ … _they will repay the Inquisition_ … _horrible mistake_.

She felt Josephine gathering around her, holding her as she trembled.

Horrible mistake.

How many such horrible mistakes had there been? How many horrible mistakes had etched themselves onto her, had imposed their will? How many horrible mistakes could be endured, should be endured?

And yet whose mistake…

She was responsible for sending the diplomats initially. She could have sent armies. She was responsible for shuffling troops to the Arbor Wilds. She could have sent armies to her people.

Horrible mistake.

Fen’Asha fled, sprinting back up to the tower and out of Josephine’s embrace. She heard the calls, but they blurred into nothing like the words on the page, like the words in her books, like the words in her mind.

Her tower mocked her, her quarters mocked her. The Inquisition mocked her.

She pulled, ripped, clawed at her bed sheets, her furs, her books, her decorations. All of it was such trivial, affected shit. Who would think of decorating a room while people died? Who would care about clothes, hair, books, beds, appearances, _romance_ …

She did.

Horrible mistake.

Solas knew all along. He knew what she was capable of. He left.

She drew her mirror, examined herself, saw her _vallaslin_ no longer. Saw her mother’s eyes, her _vallaslin_. Her Keeper, her _vallaslin_. No longer.

She smashed the mirror on the edge of her desk, the shattered glass landing in her pathetic, grandiose carpet.

She saw the golden figures, Mythal and Elgar’nan. They faced fate together, crashing through her windows in a commotion that was sure to send guards running to check on her. To check on the horrible mistake.

She picked up Fen’Harel’s statue, the golden likeness, ready to throw him out with Mythal and Elgar’nan… But she stilled, held him close instead, knelt in the broken glass as it tore her flesh again and reopened her wounds.

She clutched the wolf as she doubled over on her floor to burn.


	28. Pt.2 - Fen: Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Put me by the window, let me see outside. Looking at the places where all my family died. Leave me by the churchyard. Leave me on my own. Someone came and take me back to my home.  
> \- “Pale Horses” Moby

Fen’Asha woke shaking, trembling from the evils in her dreams. Her clan. So much death. She closed her eyes and saw the bodies, a maze of lifeless forms heaped into fiery piles. A maze of accusations and sorrow.

She wanted to know. She wanted to forget.

Her eyes darted around, trying to gain some sense of bearing. She was in her quarters, the quarters she’d trashed hours earlier. The curtains hung in tatters against the moonlight. Broken glass caught the shimmering. Shadows danced.

She was alone and she felt betrayed by all that had been hers. The room was…different.

What had once provided love now provided fuel for nightmares. Without Solas, the room was a tomb.

Maybe a tomb was where she belonged.

Clan Lavellan was supposed to be safe in Wycome. The Duke of Wycome was dead. With red lyrium in the city’s wells, disease struck the humans. And the elves were to blame as they always were. Scapegoats, eyeballed with doubt even by transient children clinging to scraps. The Keeper feared violence from the Free Marchers, even as others held fast to other views.

And then? Bloodshed. Brutality.

The Free Marchers believed a lie and killed for it. How many times had this damn story been told across Thedas? Fen’Asha felt the churning in her stomach and resisted, letting the sting impose itself. Letting the violence settle into her core, letting it clench her bones.

She deserved it for her inaction, for the naïveté that sending “diplomats” would ease the horrendous hearts of men bent on doing violence to her people.

Josephine was the first to reappear, the first spectre from the outside world to find Fen’Asha in her room, clinging to sheets and refusing food and water.

“Oh dear,” said Josephine as she stepped around the calamity on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed.

“There is glass on the floor,” said Fen’Asha, peering up from her curled position in the corner of her bed.

“Inquisitor,” said Josephine. “I am so terribly sorry. We have sent diplomats…”

Fen’Asha sighed. “No more diplomats.”

Josephine nodded and closed her eyes. “I don’t understand how this happened…”

“Because of me,” said Fen’Asha. “It happened because of me.”

“Inquisitor, please,” said Josephine. “Don’t say such things. The world is…”

“I did this.”

Josephine shook her head. “I won’t allow it.”

“I did this by doing nothing,” said Fen’Asha. “I should have been there myself. I could have stopped them.”

Josephine shook her head again. “There was nothing that could have been done. We were too late. If you are to blame, I am…”

“No,” said Fen’Asha. “You tried to help my clan.”

“As did you, Inquisitor,” said Josephine. “You have the weight of the world on your shoulders. You can only do so much against its evils.”

Fen’Asha shook her head and pulled the sheets around her as she rose to a sitting position.

“You must take time for yourself,” continued Josephine. “I have spoken to the others and we will be demarcating your duties for the next few days. Please rest, Inquisitor.”

“But I…”

“Please,” said Josephine, standing and surveying the scene. “And I will have someone attend to your needs.”

“There are things to do,” said Fen’Asha. She tried to stand but slumped back on the edge of the bed, legs lifeless.

“Remain here, Inquisitor,” said Josephine with a soft smile. “It is for the best.”

Fen’Asha watched as Josephine tiptoed through the debris on the floor and made her way to the top of the stairs, turning to smile once again at the Inquisitor. She took the first few steps down before something seemed to come to mind.

“Inquisitor?” she said.

Fen’Asha raised her head.

“Your face…” said Josephine. “The markings…”

“Solas….removed them,” said Fen’Asha, looking down. “They weren’t what I…”

“I understand,” interrupted Josephine. “You look lovely as ever.”

True to her word, there were attendants in the Inquisitor’s quarters within the half hour. They cleaned up the mess on the floor, carefully lifting every last fragment of broken glass out of the carpet. They even repaired the broken window, with a bearded team of four dwarves and a ladder doing the rather dangerous job. Fen’Asha apologized again and again, but the dwarves merely grinned and continued their work.

Sera visited after a few hours, knocking noisily before entering and sneaking up the stairs like she was planning an attack on a guard without pantaloons. She spotted Fen’Asha and looked down instantly as their eyes met, her face contorting into the space between a grin and a frown.

Sera plopped herself down on the bed, still without saying a word. It was some kind of record.

“Sera…” said Fen’Asha as she slid over to her friend.

“Not good, not good,” said Sera as she fiddled with her thumbs.

“It’s nice to see you,” said Fen’Asha.

“Is it?” said Sera.

Fen’Asha nodded.

“Josephine told me what happened,” said Sera, still fumbling with her thumbs. “I’m not very good at…”

“You don’t have to say anything,” said Fen’Asha.

Sera sighed. “That’s a relief,” she said. She was still locked between a frown and a grin, like her mouth couldn’t decide what to do with the opportunity.

“I’ve made so many mistakes,” said Fen’Asha.

“Piss off with that,” snapped Sera. She clasped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide. “I mean…”

“No,” said Fen’Asha. “Please.”

“Well,” said Sera. “Seriously. Piss. Off. With. That.”

“It was my fault…”

“What was?” said Sera. “You told the Free Marchers to go all tits-up? You told the Duke to go all mad in the head? You sit here acting like you shot the arrows yourself…”

“I might as well have,” said Fen’Asha.

“Piss. Off.”

“You don’t understand….”

“ _I_ don’t understand?” said Sera. She stood up and glanced at the patched-up window. “That’s right funny, that is. I know more about cock-ups, fuck-ups, blunders, mishaps, boo-boos, gaffes, flubs, and all that twaddle than you could forget.”

“You’ve never had your whole clan killed,” said Fen’Asha. She bit at the words.

“ _You_ never have either,” said Sera.

“Well…”

“You just like blaming yourself, moody-tits,” said Sera. She paced.

“Excuse me?” said Fen’Asha.

“Look,” said Sera. She knelt before Fen’Asha, holding the Inquisitor’s knees. “You can feel as sad as you want about this mess, but don’t you think for a second that I’m going to mooch around and let you take the blame for something you didn’t do.”

“I…”

“I…” said Sera. “I…”

Fen’Asha raised her eyebrows.

“Then it’s just a pity party, innit?” said Sera. “Feeling sad for yourself, not the clan. Not the elves. That’s what that is.”

“Sera, I think you should go,” said Fen’Asha. She narrowed her eyes seriously.

“Fine,” said Sera. She stood again. “You know where to find me if you change your mind and start acting like a proper person again.”

Fen’Asha draped herself in the sheets as Sera headed down the stairs and left, closing the door softly.

She stared out the window, the sun resting on the trees outside her window. The world still rattled on, business as usual. People woke up, washed their faces, put their clothes on, went about their days. She didn’t know how. She didn’t understand what the use was, with one horrible mistake after another coming back to haunt her. Every move she made had consequences, had significance that tainted the world red.

Her father would have told her that everyone dealt with such things. Everyone knew that their movements could shake the world. Everyone knew they could paint the world in blood. Or they could paint the world in blue, in white, in shades of colour. They could shape history with a hiccup, with a sigh.

They could break a heart.

Cassandra was the next to visit. She tentatively entered and sat at the desk, fingers darting around Fen’Asha’s things before settling in her lap. She apologized for her nervousness.

Fen’Asha nodded. “It’s okay.”

“I have…heard about what happened at Wycome,” said Cassandra. “Is there anything I can do?”

Fen’Asha shook her head.

“I am deeply sorry,” said Cassandra. “We do not know the ways of the Maker…”

Fen’Asha nodded slowly.

“Sometimes, it is just madness,” continued Cassandra. “Sometimes there is no sense to make of the world.”

Fen’Asha nodded again.

“I am sorry,” said Cassandra. “I don’t ever know what to say, but I know the sting of despair and I am here for you.”

“Does everyone know?” asked Fen’Asha.

Cassandra nodded. “Word travels fast, Inquisitor. We care for you. You are our leader, but you are also…”

Fen’Asha stood and walked toward the window. She was a leader.

Cassandra stood beside the Inquisitor. “When Anthony was murdered by blood mages, I learned to hate. And I have carried my hatred ever since, hatred for the maleficar and for anyone who would take my brother’s head for their own ends. For such nonsense.”

“I’m sorry, Cassandra,” said Fen’Asha.

“There are many who would kill for such nonsense, Inquisitor,” said Cassandra. “Many who have to die for their madness. And many more who have to die for nothing, no madness at all.”

Fen’Asha nodded.

“The Maker doesn’t explain the world,” said Cassandra. “There are no accounts for madness.”

“Yeah,” muttered Fen’Asha.

“Maybe Varric could write us a book about it,” said Cassandra with a shrug.

Fen’Asha tested a smile and it stuck.

“Inquisitor,” said Cassandra with a little bow. “I will leave you be. You know where to find me if you wish to talk.”

Fen’Asha nodded and resisted the urge to hug her, letting the Seeker leave in peace.

She stared around her. She’d tried to escape her faceless quarters before, just a day or two ago. After Solas…

And now she’d torn down the walls, for the Inquisition’s servants to rebuild and pick the glass from her heart. Maybe that was it after all. Maybe it was about picking the glass, fixing the wounds, standing up, trying again.

She clasped the golden Fen’Harel, held it close to her chest so it could hear her heartbeat.

He Who Hunts Alone.

She was alone. The Inquisitor, surrounded by the Inquisition but alone to endure, alone to pick the glass from her heart and the hearts of Thedas. And alone to carry on, alone to pay the price.

The golden Fen’Harel looked up at her, smiling now. Had she paid the price for his blessing, for his aid? Had her prayers been answered? Had the Dread Wolf heard her steps in the darkness, heard her pleading in the black, heard her weeping?

Was she weeping for herself or her clan? Was she fooling herself? Was Sera right?

Solas would have things to say. Solas would be wise. Solas would be warm.

She clutched Fen’Harel. The wolf was warm, too. The wolf was hot.


	29. Pt.2 - Fen: Mother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t do much these days. Keep the wolves at bay. Don’t do much to ease the pain. Heaven’s hell, I say. It gets in the way. If we're never gonna reach the top why would we even try?  
> \- “Wolf Mother” The Mynabirds

“ _Da’len_ ,” came a voice. Her mother’s voice. Her mother’s hand on her shoulder.

She looked up. A corpse, jawless, toothless. Blood caked to rotting skin, hair tumbling from a bloody braid. Eyes burning green with hate.

“Was your Father not enough, _Da’len_?” came mother’s voice.

She shook her head. A horrible mistake.

“ _Emma ir abelas. Souver'inan isala hamin. Vhenan him dor'felas. In uthenera na revas_ …” said mother. She tucked Fen’Asha’s hair behind her ear, sitting back. Waiting.

“ _Mamae_ ,” Fen’Asha wept, her hands at her Mother’s knees pleading.

And _Mamae_ grabbed Fen’Asha’s ear, pulling her toward her gaping mouth. Pulling her toward endlessness.

“It was my mistake, _Da’len_.”

Pulling her toward the dark inside, past rows of broken teeth.

“I should have killed you fresh from the womb.”

The tongue was grotesque, waggling without sense.

“ _Fen'Harel ma halam_ …Let _Mamae_ make up for past mistakes. Horrible mistakes.”

Pulling Fen’Asha inside her mouth, bloody and raw.

* * *

 

Fen’Asha woke, body coated in sweat. Fen’Harel was in her hands still, his golden fur glistening. He was her Deliverer now, wasn’t he? He held her, carried her from the bandits. Didn’t he? She shook her head, trying to jar the memories into sense. She opened her hand to the Anchor. Another horrible mistake, wasn’t it? Some sort of accident she was never meant to bear.

She wanted to run. She wanted to leap from the balcony and return to the wolves, the forest. She knew she could. Who would miss her?

But the Anchor gave her purpose, didn’t it? Didn’t it mean she _had_ to remain? If she was to serve…

She shook her head again, put Fen’Harel down carelessly. He toppled to the floor as she ran from her quarters. She wasn’t sure she ever wanted to return.

The moon hung in the air as she walked into the courtyard, walking down the stone staircase. The tavern sat glowing as it always did, sounds of song leaking into the night air. Small groups of people stood around at the bottom of the stairs. They nodded when she passed. Some greeted her by name, asked how she was, smiled with concerned eyes.

She walked past the tavern, to the cool shadowy corner near the medical supply rooms and the appropriation equipment. These corridors bustled during the day, full of people doing their duties for the Inquisition. Full of people believing in the cause, believing in doing the right thing.

And Cassandra’s practice dummies stood in the tall grass under the reaching trees. They stared at her, blank eyes and open mouths. She watched them, white and tough. Stout, fixed in the ground to accomplish their purpose.

Their purpose was to be hit. Again and again. To withstand punishment so that others might improve, so that others might build confidence and resolve to fight another day. They watched her, pale and unfeeling but persistent. They had no hearts to break, no minds to lose, no Anchors…

Yet they still had duty, still had a reason to exist. Still served a purpose.

 

Fen’Asha found herself in the garden when Leliana approached her. The spymaster was shifting her weight, eyes wide.

“Morrigan,” she said. “She went…into…” Leliana pointed to an open door, an open door with a distinctive blue glow.

It was the eluvian.

Leliana and Fen’Asha raced for the room, with the spymaster explaining how Morrigan had gone through after her son Kieran. She was frantic.

Fen’Asha touched the lip of the glass and it gave, a purple blur that invited her through.

“Be careful,” said Leliana as the Inquisitor crossed over.

The Fade rippled before her, unsettled ground and dark architecture spiraling to the green sky. Wisps and spirits gathered in clusters, dispersing as Fen’Asha made her way down an embankment and toward a swirling black pool. Ahead of the pool was Morrigan, pacing back and forth. She clutched her staff, ready to point its power at anything that moved.

Fen’Asha approached carefully, resting a hand on the witch’s shoulder.

Morrigan started and frowned. “I…”

“We’ll find him,” said Fen’Asha.

“Why would he do this?” said Morrigan. “How could he do this?”

Fen’Asha shrugged.

“We’re in the Fade,” continued Morrigan. “To use the eluvian to get here requires immense power…”

Fen’Asha searched her immediate surroundings, the swirling pool seemingly growing in depth before her eyes. It was hypnotic, beautiful.

“If he is lost to me now…” Morrigan was saying. “Please, help me look.”

Fen’Asha broke her gaze with the black pool and nodded, stepping ahead toward a cluster of spirits that seemed to be waving her over. She drew near, Morrigan behind her, and the spirits disseminated in a cloud of white. They collected again further in the distance, drawing the witch and Inquisitor closer before dispersing again and repeating the process.

“They want us to follow,” whispered Fen’Asha.

Soon, the spirits led Fen’Asha and Morrigan to a crest of stone steps. They took them and found what they sought at the top, with Kieran standing before a woman who was on bended knee. Her hair was a shock of pure white, tied with crimson into horns. She wore crimson leather, with a steel crown on her head that drew to a point.

“It cannot be,” said Morrigan.

Kieran turned to face his mother, a sphere of light in his hand. He smiled and closed his fist, shutting out the glow.

Morrigan smiled back as her son greeted her. She winced as she greeted the white-haired woman in the same fashion. “Mother.”

“This is a surprise, isn’t it?” said the woman as she stood. “Mother, daughter, grandson. A family reunion to warm the heart.”

“Let him go,” said Morrigan.

“As if I were holding him hostage,” said the woman. She frowned at Fen’Asha. “She has always been so ungrateful.”

“Ungrateful?” spat Morrigan. “I know your tricks. I know your methods.” She pointed.

The woman laughed.

“I know how you plan to extend your life,” said Morrigan. “You will not have me and you will certainly not have my son.” She swirled her hands, working up the momentum for a spell.

“That’s quite enough,” said the woman. She stilled Morrigan’s magic with a single raised hand, freezing the witch in place.

“What…have you done to me?” stammered Morrigan.

“You drank from the Well,” said the woman. “I have done nothing.”

Morrigan’s eyes widened as she struggled to move her arms. “You...it cannot be.”

The woman smiled as Fen’Asha took a few steps forward.

“You are Mythal,” said Morrigan.

Fen’Asha bowed her head and the woman returned the gesture, patting Kieran on the shoulder. He ran for his mother, meeting her waiting arms. The spell that froze Morrigan had been released.

“I’m sorry,” said Kieran. “I heard her calling…”

“I do not understand,” said Morrigan, holding her son close.

“Once, I was but a woman crying in the darkness for justice,” said the woman. “She came to me. A wisp of an ancient being. She granted me all I wanted and more. I have carried her ever since.”

“You carry Mythal inside you?” Fen’Asha said.

“She is a part of me,” the woman said.

Morrigan loosened her grip on Kieran and he joined his grandmother again.

Fen’Asha stiffened. She wasn’t sure what to believe. Could she really be standing before Mythal?

“You hear the voices of the Well,” said the woman. “What do they say?”

“You speak the truth,” said Morrigan.

“Truth is not an end but a beginning,” said the woman. “What was Mythal? A legend given a name and called a god. Or was there more…?”

Fen’Asha nodded, trying to fathom what she was hearing.

“You do your people proud,” the woman said to the Inquisitor. “You have come far.”

“ _Asha’bellanar_ ,” Fen’Asha breathed. “The woman of many years…”

“And you may call me Flemeth,” said the woman.

“My people speak of your legend,” Fen’Asha continued.

“The legends are certainly…interesting,” said Flemeth.

“You left your husband for a lover, your husband tricked you, killed your lover, put you away,” said Fen’Asha. “A spirit offered you vengeance. Mythal.”

“One day, someone will abridge the dreadful events in your life so quickly,” Flemeth said.

“You help people,” said Fen’Asha.

“I nudge history, when it’s required,” Flemeth replied. “Other times, a shove is necessary.”

“Will you…can you help us?” Fen’Asha wondered.

“You know not what you ask, child,” said Flemeth. She creased her brow.

“You follow Mythal’s whims, do you?” said Morrigan. “Do you know what she truly is?”

“She was betrayed as I was betrayed,” said Flemeth. “As the world was betrayed. Mythal crawled her way through the ages to me and I will see her avenged.”

“Do you know what we’re up against?” asked Fen’Asha.

“More than you know,” said Flemeth. “I will grant you aid once I have what I came for.” She looked at Kieran, ran her fingers through his black hair.

“No,” spat Morrigan. “He is not your pawn. I will not let you use him.”

Flemeth raised an eyebrow. “Have you not used him?”

“That was…before,” said Morrigan. “Now, he is my son.”

Flemeth closed her eyes. “I am not the only one carrying the soul of a being long thought lost,” she said.

“He is more than that,” said Morrigan.

“Our destinies are not so easily avoided, dear girl,” said Flemeth.

“What do you want?” said Morrigan.

“Let me take the boy and you are free of me forever,” began Flemeth, opening her eyes. “I will never interfere, I will never harm you again. Keep the boy and you will never be safe from me. I will have my due.”

Morrigan narrowed her eyes and clutched her staff. “He’s coming with me.”

Flemeth grinned. “Decided so quickly?”

“Kieran will be free of you,” the witch said. “I may be many things, but I will never be the mother you were to me.” She spit the last words out like acid.

Flemeth kneeled beside Kieran again, smoothing out his unruly mop. She smiled deep into his eyes and took his hands in hers. The sphere shone blue again, but it left him and floated into the air.

“No more bad dreams?” asked Kieran.

Flemeth nodded, accepting the blue sphere into her body. “No more bad dreams.”

Kieran ran back to Morrigan, hugging her around the waist.

Flemeth paced. “A soul is not forced on the unwilling, my dear,” she said. “You were never in danger from me.”

Morrigan took a step forward, Kieran clinging to her side.

“Listen to the voices,” said Flemeth as she turned around. “They will teach you as I never did.”

Fen’Asha watched in wonder as Flemeth walked into nothingness, disappearing before their very eyes. She watched as Kieran and Morrigan held each other, tears spilling. The elf had so many more questions, had so many more things to say. Would Flemeth help? Would Mythal help? And the Dread Wolf…

As she walked out of the Fade with Morrigan and her son, she kept her eyes open. She wondered who was watching her, who was stalking the very Fade. She wondered about the eyes in the darkness, yellow and penetrating.

“Are you alright, Kieran?” Morrigan asked at last.

“I feel…lonely,” said the boy.

“She wanted the old god soul all along,” said Morrigan, turning to Fen’Asha. “Perhaps I do not know everything after all. My own mother’s plans are indefinite to me and now I am tied to her for eternity. Be glad you didn’t drink from the Well, Inquisitor.”

“Kieran had the soul of an old god?” asked Fen’Asha.

“Yes,” said Morrigan. “Taken from the Archdemon at the final battle of the Fifth Blight. I do not know how this will affect him. His destiny is in Flemeth’s hands now.”

“You did the right thing,” said Fen’Asha.

“Did I?” asked Morrigan, her hands on Kieran’s shoulders as they walked through the Fade.

Fen’Asha nodded.

“Mother will be pleased,” said Morrigan. “If I see her again, I will have no choice but to do as she commands. What happened at the Temple of Mythal must somehow have been her influence.”

“Do you trust her?” asked Fen’Asha.

“I am uncertain,” said Morrigan. She let Kieran go as they neared the eluvian that would lead them back to Skyhold.

Fen’Asha watched the boy race ahead, running without a care in the world.

“I knew there was more to her than I realized,” continued Morrigan. “But this? There seems an undeniable sense of truth to what she had told us, yet something is…”

“Off?” offered Fen’Asha.

Morrigan nodded.

“So what now?” said Fen’Asha as she touched the edge of the eluvian.

“We must turn our minds to Corypheus,” said Morrigan. “The voices of the Well tell me he has a weakness. His dragon is not truly an Archdemon but rather a creature in which Corypheus has invested part of his being. Such pride.” She shook her head, almost in amusement.

“So what do we do?”

“Exploit his pride,” said Morrigan. “I shall be able to match his dragon. All that remains for you is to find him.”


	30. Pt.2 - Fen: Varnehn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ghosts keep whispering. The feather of a raven's wing turned white by the bed sheets. This chill, when it gonna leave my bones? Take the ache so I can go and be washed in the wilderness. Carry my body 'cross the frozen ground while the moon burns bright and the fire fades out.  
> \- “Before I Sleep” Joy Williams

The moon clung to its place in the sky as Fen’Asha searched the caravans, checking them over for another journey. She looked through the packs and adjusted the sails. The halla were resting nearby in the dark grass.

“Don’t look so sad,” came a voice. It was Varnehn. He tall for a Dalish, dark hair and dark eyes, so handsome. He stood behind her.

She turned to face him, said his name, let it linger.

“I’m starting to think you prefer these wolves to me,” said Varnehn.

“We have to move on,” said Fen’Asha. “We’ve upset the pack…”

Varnehn laughed. “Fen’Asha…”

“It will be a long journey,” she fumbled, tracing the collar of his tunic.

“So many of the children grew over the season, _ma lath_ ,” he said. He embraced her, long arms snaking around her waist, familiar, comfortable. “You may have to sit on my lap…” he whispered.

“You will have to wait…” She laughed and batted him away, eyes bright, playful yet alert. “Our wedding is not…”

“Satisfy my urges now, _lath_ ,” he said.

“There is work to be done,” she said, shaking her head. She was smiling.

“The _aravels_ can wait,” said Varnehn. “But I cannot.” His hands caressed her, rubbing her back.

She exhaled his name, breath lit by night.

“You are so beautiful,” he said.

You are so beautiful…

“Let me inside you, _lath,_ ” he whispered. “Please.” He kissed her. Heat budding into…dissipation.

You are so beautiful…

She turned from him, words echoing like rumbling in a tomb. Something was wrong. Something was missing.

“You _do_ prefer the Wolf,” said Varnehn.

She gripped his tunic, pushed him away, shook her head.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said. “Always running to the woods. Among the wolves. Staring at _him_.” He seized her, pulled her close, pinned her arms.

She struggled against him.

“You…were supposed to be mine,” he snarled. “Mine.”

“I belong to me,” she whispered. She wished she’d shouted it. She wished she’d tossed him against the _aravels_ then and there, thrown him to the ground, run away.

“Mine,” he said again. He hissed, his face fading, crumbling, clinging tight to his skull. His lips drew back to disintegrating teeth, eyes drawing darkness without stars.

“No,” she whispered. She wanted to shout it.

“Why the Conclave?” hissed Varnehn. “Why him….why _him_?”

“No,” she whispered as he pulled her close, his jaw rattling as his head continued to crumble.

“We could’ve been happy,” he said. “He is a trickster.”

“He...”

“He has made you into a fool. _His_ fool.”

“I...”

“He is a liar.”

“No.”

The decaying skull advanced closer and closer still, mumbling and blaspheming. The moon watched. “He is proud,” said Varnehn.

“I love him,” said Fen’Asha. “He…”

“Who is he?”

“Solas,” she whispered. She wanted to shout it.

* * *

She woke with a start, finding that she was in the tavern, quite alone. She was grateful for the solitude, grateful that nobody saw her snoozing with her head in the crook of her arm in the corner table.

Fen’Asha found the bartender, who was snoozing as well, and woke him for a cup of coffee. He obliged grumpily and she sat back down, ready to bury her head in the thick black stuff resting in the bottom of the mug.

“Feeling better yet?” came a voice. It was Sera.

“Can’t sleep,” said Fen’Asha, dragging her face to some semblance of a grin.

“Shit,” said Sera. “Looks like you haven’t slept in weeks, you hideous mongrel.”

“Thanks,” shrugged Fen’Asha.

“What’s wrong with your face?” Sera said.

Fen’Asha rubbed her temples.

“Seriously,” said Sera through a mouth of pastry. “Noticed earlier but didn’t say anything because reasons, but it’s gone”

“What’s gone?” groaned Fen’Asha.

“You know,” said Sera. “The…dealies.”

“My markings?” said Fen’Asha, touching her face.

Sera nodded.

“They were…slave markings,” Fen’Asha said, exhaling into her coffee. “Solas removed them.”

Sera suppressed a chuckle. “Those Dalish…silly elves.”

Fen’Asha shrugged.

“Just the same as everyone else, they are,” said Sera.

“Just the same,” said Fen’Asha.

“Just the sore losers of history,” said Sera. She rolled her eyes. “As if being all sad makes them better. Turns out, they aren’t victims. Even got that big old temple full of demon-worshipping lies…”

“You think elves worship demons?”

“Well, they never call them _that_ ,” said Sera. “But that’s what it is. Impressive, sure. But there can’t be a bunch of gods and the Maker. Those don’t fit.”

“Some of it could be true,” said Fen’Asha. “You have to grant that.”

“No,” said Sera. “No. No, I don’t.”

“But what about everything we saw?”

“Shit looking weird doesn’t mean weird-looking shit is real,” said Sera.

Fen’Asha sipped her coffee.

“You can’t believe this shit,” said Sera. “You’re the Herald of Andraste. You open your mouth, you’ll sound like an idiot.”

“That’s never stopped you,” said Fen’Asha with a slight smirk.

They stared at each other before erupting in laughter.

“I miss this,” said Sera. “Where’ve you been anyway?”

“Here and there,” said Fen’Asha. The sleepless nights were blurring together.

“Oh, bugger,” said Sera as she scanned the entrance. “Here he comes.”

“Who?” asked Fen’Asha.

A flamboyant man in rather ostentatious attire stood at the front of the tavern and scanned the area. When he spotted Sera, he grinned and trotted toward the table.

Sera buried her head in her hands.

“There you are,” said the man. “And there _you_ are, Inquisitor.”

“I don’t believe we’ve met…” said Fen’Asha.

“I am the Lord Trifles Minutiae,” he said with a flourish. “I am a student and master of the history of this great land and I…”

“He’s a buggered nut is what,” said Sera, finally lifting her head.

Lord Minutiae chuckled noisily. “I do love a good barb,” he said.

“Can we…help you?” asked Fen’Asha.

“Don’t….ask him that,” said Sera.

“It does indeed appear that you can, my dear,” said Lord Minutiae. He took a deep breath. “Inquisitor, you have done much…”

Sera was mouthing the words.

“But have you the stomach for…” he said, drawing his hand in the air.

“The Quizquisition,” blurted Sera.

“The what?” asked Fen’Asha.

“The Quizquisition,” repeated Sera.

“The Quizquisition,” proclaimed Lord Minutiae.

“I…” said Fen’Asha.

“He’s going to ask _you_ ,” said Sera. She laughed. “He’s going to ask you.”

“You shall have your turn too, dear one,” said Lord Minutiae. “But an opportunity with the Inquisitor does not come around every morrow.”

Fen’Asha sighed. “Please, Lord Minotaur...”

“Lord Minutiae,” he said. “I shall bear it, for ‘tis your knowledge of Thedas that interests me most.” He waved his arms around.

Sera giggled. “Ask her.”

Fen’Asha looked around. The tavern was still empty. Nobody but Sera would notice if she used a freezing spell on Lord Minutiae and left him in the cold box for a while. Nobody would say a thing…

“Thedas encompasses many wonders,” he said, eyeing her seriously. “What is this land’s largest city?”

“Oh, that one’s easy,” said Sera. She stared at Fen’Asha, head cradled in her hands.

“Minrathous…” ventured Fen’Asha.

“The Inquisitor is correct,” boomed Lord Minutiae. “The Inquisitor is correct.” He spun around in a circle.

Fen’Asha finally broke down, laughing with her hands clasped to her face.

“We shall continue…” he said. “When I have the time.”

Sera once again mouthed the words.

“And when the wind calls me,” he said. And then he began blowing through his lips, imitating the wind but spitting all over the place.

Sera spit back. “The wind’s in your arse,” she said.

When the “wind noises” subsided, Lord Minutiae stood staring at Sera and Fen’Asha.

They stared back.

He coughed into his hand.

“This fellow bothering you?” came a voice. It was Blackwall and he looked like he hadn’t slept in years. He scratched at his straggly beard, staring a hole through Lord Minutiae.

“Ah, you are here as well,” said Lord Minutiae. “I am indeed sorry to part company, but alas the wind takes me.”

“You’re not going to _blow_ are you?” asked Blackwall.

“I…” said Lord Minutiae. He began to walk backward. “Don’t. Know.”

“Goodbye Lord Minotaur,” waved Sera as Lord Minutiae departed the tavern.

“That man is a piece of work,” said Blackwall as he found himself a cup of coffee.

“Can’t sleep?” said Sera as the Grey Warden settled in at the table.

“I usually don’t” said Blackwall.

“Neither does she, these days,” said Sera, jerking a thumb at the Inquisitor.

Fen’Asha sighed, drank her coffee.

“We all have our stories,” said Blackwall, offering an empathetic smile underneath the unkempt beard.

“And she ain’t got those elfy things,” said Sera.

Blackwall studied the Inquisitor’s face, resting as it was against the table. He opened his mouth to say something, but Sera waved him against the idea.

“Solas,” she whispered. “Floppy.”

“Oh,” whispered Blackwall.

“I can hear you,” murmured Fen’Asha.

“She can hear us,” whispered Sera.

Blackwall nodded.

For a time, they all stared straight ahead. Even Sera seemed transfixed in the moment, watching the glow of the room. There was something calming about it, but darkness seeped in through the walls.

Blackwall sighed noisily.

“Something on your mind?” said Sera.

“Dreams,” said Blackwall.

Fen’Asha nodded. “Tell me about it.”

Blackwall leaned forward into his coffee, taking the invitation literally. “When I was a boy, there were these urchins who roamed the streets near my Father’s house,” he said. “One day, they found a dog. A wretched little thing. It came to them for food. They caught it, tied a rope around its neck and strung it up.”

Sera gasped.

“Do you know what I did?” he said, turning to the two elves.

“You beat the bloody piss out of those urchins?” said Sera.

“Saved the dog? Cut it down?” asked Fen’Asha.

Blackwall shook his head. “Nothing. Not a damn thing.”

Sera gasped again.

“I saw the kicking legs, neck straining and twisting, crying,” Blackwall continued. “And I went inside, closed the door. I could’ve told someone, but I just pretended it wasn’t happening.”

“You twat,” said Sera, eyes wide.

“He was just a boy…” said Fen’Asha.

“I was old enough,” said Blackwall. “I knew it was wrong. Sera’s right. She hasn’t called me anything I haven’t called myself.”

“Twat burger,” said Sera, crossing her arms. “Bet you haven’t called yourself that.”

“We could make the world better,” sighed Blackwall. “But it’s just easier to shut our eyes.”

“You were saving peasants from demons and bandits,” said Fen’Asha. “Your eyes are not shut.”

“Yeah they are,” said Sera. “Shut with bullshit.”

Blackwall sighed. “There’s always some dog out there,” he said. “Some fucking mongrel that doesn’t know how to stay away.”

Fen’Asha nodded.

“You are somehow still standing, Inquisitor, after all that’s been done,” said Blackwall. “I can only dream of matching what you have done.”

“I…” began Fen’Asha.

“Twat burger,” said Sera.

Blackwall chuckled softly, stroked his beard. “Come to think of it, I have called myself that,” he said.

Sera furrowed her brow. “Twat…”

“Goodnight, Sera,” said Blackwall as he stood up. “Goodnight, Inquisitor.”

“Waffle,” proclaimed Sera. “Twat waffle.”

“That’s a new one,” said Blackwall as he receded into the night.

Sera and Fen’Asha drifted in and out of conversations, but eventually the rogue took it upon herself to crawl back up to her room. There were a few hours left to grab some sleep and she had a dream she wanted to get back to.

Fen’Asha slumped back and tried to close her eyes, the wood of the table her pillow. Minutes passed and nothing happened. There was no sleep to drift off to, no slumber awaiting her.

She frowned and stood, wandering out of the tavern and up to the ramparts instead. Maybe the night air would help. Something had to help.

The memories wouldn’t fade. There was Varnehn again, stalking her consciousness with his groping hands and his toothless grin. There was mother, her gaping mouth waiting for her. There was her clan, mountains of bones in the forest.

Fen’Asha looked to the stars, hoping against hope that the words of a silent prayer would find their way home. The moon peered over her as she paced the ramparts, nodded to the guards on night duty and tried not to look like the exhausted wreck she was. She leaned in a corner, nearly burying her head in her hands but for the approaching footfall of another guard. She nodded to him before he could ask her any questions and walked briskly to the stairs.

She wandered through the garden, through various doors and corridors until she found herself where she didn’t want to be.

Solas’ murals loomed against the dull flickering candles on his desk. He was nowhere to be found, luckily, and she almost turned on her heel to leave her surprise destination. She locked eyes on his artwork, however, and stopped short.

He had added the eluvian from the Temple of Mythal. She’d been wandering around in a sleepless daze and he’d been painting. She resisted the urge to scoff.

She moved her eyes to the wolves, her favourite aspect of his work. They howled their opposition, their rebellion. They were free. Free to slumber where they wanted, when they wanted. Free with full bellies and noble hearts. Free to scream, to adore…

“Inquisitor,” said Solas as he entered his rotunda.

She whispered his name.

“Are you alright?” he said as he walked closer. “Josephine tells me of…”

“Your new addition to the mural is…” she said, waving absently.

“ _Ma serannas_ ,” he said. “Please. Your clan…” His eyes finally searching her.

She shook her head.

“You haven’t slept,” he said.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“You’re not,” he said. He placed a hand on her forehead. “It has been days. Come.”

“Solas, I…” she said.

“I will provide you with a sleeping draught,” he said. “You will recognize it.”

“I’m just…it’s Corypheus,” she murmured.

“I understand,” he said, scribbling something down on a piece of paper.

“And dreams…” she continued.

“A good night’s rest is essential,” Solas said. He placed the paper in her hand. “The garden will have many of the supplies and the rest can be found in the shops below.”

“ _Ma serannas_ ,” she said as she drifted from his rotunda.

“Be well, Inquisitor,” he said.

 


	31. Pt.2 - Fen: Buried

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You hover like a hummingbird. Haunt me in my sleep. You'll say you're from another world. Sinking in my seat. "You're feeding on my energy. Letting go of it" she once said. And I run from wolves breathing heavily at my feet. And I run from wolves tearing into me without teeth.  
> \- “Wolves Without Teeth” Of Monsters And Men

The days that passed alleviated the pain, but sleep free of nightmares was still fleeting. Fen’Asha clung to the idea of one day resting comfortably as the carriage rattled its way to Emprise du Lion.

Of course, a catnap wasn’t on the menu for the moment. Accustomed to the fiery throes of their relationship, the Inquisition had left plenty of room for Fen’Asha and Solas to sit together. He did as was suggested by proximity and sat next to her, trying to keep his eyes and limbs contained. As a result, he appeared impossibly tense. He was also unseasonably talkative.

“I find the fall of the dwarven lands perplexing,” he was saying to Varric.

“What’s perplexing about, you know, endless darkspawn?” replied the dwarf.

“A great deal,” said Solas. “But that is another matter. Dwarves control the flow of lyrium. They could tighten their grip on it…”

“How?” Varric asked.

“You are active in the Carta,” said Solas. “You know people.”

“Been there, done that,” replied Varric. "Orzammar is what it is.”

Fen’Asha sighed and dipped into her pack, pleased to have brought another dosage of Solas’ sleep toxin. She drained the small vial and looked around, hoping it went unnoticed.

“Is there a movement to reunite Orzammar with Kal-Sharok?” said Solas.

“What? Why?” asked Varric.

“In the Fade, I came upon the memory of a man who lived alone on an island,” said Solas. “His tribe had fallen to beasts or disease and his wife died in childbirth. He was the only one who remained. He could have found new land, new people, but he remained. He spent every single day catching fish. He spent every single night drinking fermented juice, watching the stars…”

“Sounds good to me,” said Varric.

“How can you be happy surrendering?” said Solas.

“I would imagine it depends on the quality of fermented juice,” said Varric.

“So it would appear,” said Solas.

“Are you always this cheery or is the hole in the sky finally getting to you?” asked Varric.

“What do you mean?”

“This fallen empire crap,” said Varric. “What’s so great about empires? We lost the Deep Roads, Orzammar’s too proud to ask for help. Blah, blah, blah. We’re not Orzammar and we’re not our empire. Things change. Life goes on. It’s different.”

“And you have no concept of what that difference has cost,” said Solas.”

Varric rolled his eyes.

“Life goes on?” Solas continued. “You are truly content without fighting back?”

“This _is_ fighting back,” said Varric.

“You are passively accepting your fate,” said Solas.

“You think the fisherman gave up, don’t you?” asked Varric.

Fen’Asha drifted.

“I am uncertain of your meaning,” said Solas.

“You thought he gave up,” continued Varric. “But he went on living. He lost it all, but he still got up in the morning. He made a life. That’s _life_. You build, life kicks your ass. You get back up, drink your face off, get back up. That’s as close to fighting as anyone gets.”

“Perhaps,” said Solas.

Fen’Asha smiled at the conversation. Maybe that was fighting back after all. Maybe just getting up, getting back on the horse, was enough. She closed her eyes, warmed herself at the thought. The sleeping draught began to simmer.

* * *

 

It was a moonless night and the clan moved up the mountainside, torches urging their way forward like a river of fire.

Keeper Lavellan lay, pristine in her coffin. Empty but beautiful, untouched and hollow to the crest of ice lapping her white flesh.

The clan hummed as they moved, as they marched.

Fen’Asha scanned the faces of her clan, her throat closing. She felt her heart pounding in her chest, remembered that her father was drawn up the same path by the same river of fire.

She remembered. She remembered their eyes, how they lit with blame. How she burned with guilt. How her Mother was still.

This time, Mother cried.

And Varnehn wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close. He hummed.

The path wound around the corners. The river of fire carved through the rock, blistering like stars in the night sky.

When they reached the summit, the clan parted and Fen’Asha emerged. She watched as the Keeper lay, looking almost peaceful in her resting place. She watched as the clan gathered, torches lit. The hums softened as she sang in full-throated tones.

 _Elder your time is come_  
_Now I am filled with sorrow_  
_Weary eyes need resting_  
_Heart has become grey and slow  
__In waking sleep is freedom_

The clan approached, offering a handful of dirt to the Keeper. She was covered in earth and Fen’Asha planted the sapling, ensuring new life from old life. Ensuring the cycle’s continuance in the black, from the moon to the ocean and beyond. Permanence.

“Keeper Lavellan, it is time.”

“Time?” Fen’Asha heard herself say. She was Keeper Lavellan. She was the continuance in the black, new life from old life. Permanence.

“For your wedding, of course.”

The clan raised their torches, echoing and burning in the sea of haze. It burned, a lake of fire from the river below. Cries, humming, whispers. Wolves howling.

Fen’Asha wanted to run to the wolves, run to the call. She felt it in her bones, felt her feet moving, felt the arms on her back. Felt the prodding.

“I am so proud, _Da’len_ ,” said Mother. “You will be one of us.”

The wolves moaned.

 _Mamae_ was proud. Destiny fulfilled. One of us. A Keeper. A wife. Soon, a mother.

Fen’Asha’s heart pounded. What was it her father said…?

The wolves wailed.

Varnehn emerged from the earth, standing tall and proud before her. Standing taller than he was. “ _Ar lath ma_ ,” he said. He slipped a ring on her finger. His hand was caked in dirt.

Her feet were stone.

She watched as hands slipped her ring on his finger. “ _Ar lath ma_.”

He kissed her. Made it official before the cheering, applauding, jeering, crying, wailing clan. They grew louder, urging her forward now, urging her into the earth, urging her into the hole where the Keeper lay. Where _she_ lay.

Varnehn urged her, too. Pushing her with his hand in the small of her back. “You are lovely.”

She tried to move. Ice in her veins. Tried to run, the howl of the wolves beckoning.

“You are lovely,” repeated Varnehn. He kissed her on the back of the neck, still pressing her on.

“No,” she said. She turned to him, clung to him. She wanted to push. Wanted to avoid the tomb, its cool dirt.

“I will lay with you, _lath_ ,” said Varnehn. He kissed her again on the the neck, sinking his wet lips against her skin. Pushing her hair aside, letting his tongue slip across her flesh. It was warm, sticky. It streaked red.

“Varnehn,” she begged.

He smiled impossibly wide as the clan marched her on, pushed her to the hole. Red poured from the corners of his mouth, from his lips, from his nose, from his eyes. It trickled down his cheeks, covered his chin, dripped to the ground. He kissed her, smeared her, streaks of crimson, thick as mud.

“Inquisitor.”

She looked for help. The clan was faceless, deteriorating bodies, putrefying corpses.

“No,” she whimpered, feet slipping toward the grave.

“Inquisitor.” The voice burned through the dark.

“No,” she shouted.

* * *

Her eyes flashed open and she was in the carriage, the Bone Tower Camp awaited her. She was safe. Alone. She heaved, gathering breath in thick doses.

“You were shaking,” said the voice. Solas leaned forward.

She said his name. “Where is everyone?”

“We have arrived at the tower camp a short time ago,” he said. “We decided to let you rest. You seemed so peaceful, but now…”

She shook her head. “I’m fine.”

“Are you certain?”

She nodded.

He studied her.

“Just a bad dream,” she muttered as she slipped away from his searching gaze.

 

“Let’s kill us some fucking dragons,” roared Iron Bull as they crossed the reconstructed bridge to Emprise du Lion’s breeding grounds.

The land had done its part to close off the dragons from the rest of the region, but the Inquisition was up to the task of handling the issue. There were three known High Dragons in the region and that prospect excited Iron Bull. The expectation was that the three dragons would find a way to breed, which would mean more dragons. And that, as Dorian repeatedly outlined, would be bad.

Solas, Dorian, Sera, Cole, Cassandra, and Iron Bull were all part of the assigned party to tackle the Hivernal. Fen’Asha knew that people still celebrated the Hivernal Feast in parts of the Orlesian Highlands. The origins came from the killing of these dragons, which were renowned for having high fat deposits under those pesky scales. There would be no feast in this instance, but Fen’Asha was kind of thrilled at the idea of seeing the great beast before her. She could hear its roar in the distance.

“Dorian, about last night,” said Iron Bull as the group continued across the bridge.

“What?” asked Dorian. He rolled his eyes.

“Three times,” said Iron Bull.

“Discretion is not your strong suit, is it?” said Dorian.

“Oh,” said Iron Bull. “And do you want your silky underthings back or did you leave them behind as a token? Or…”

Dorian sighed.

“Wait a minute,” said Iron Bull. He stopped walking. “You left them behind to give you a reason to come back, you sly dog.”

“If you choose to leave your door unlocked like a savage,” said Dorian. “I may or may not come.” He stopped short and seemed to consider his unfortunate wording.

“Speak for yourself,” said Iron Bull, clasping a hand on the back of the mage.

Fen’Asha cocked an eyebrow.

“We’ve been spending some time together,” explained Iron Bull.

“If only you had a single discreet bone in your body…” groaned Dorian.

Iron Bull looked primed to explode, but he resisted saying whatever it was that came to mind and started walking again. Eventually, he pressed his beefy hand to his mouth and stifled a laugh that rivalled the roar of the distant dragons.

“I get it,” said Sera, beyond ecstatic. “ _Bone_.”

“Inquisitor, if you’ve a Rift you could open…” said Dorian.

Fen’Asha grinned. It felt good.

“What I get from my affairs is my affair,” said Dorian. He walked with purpose, keeping a safe distance from Iron Bull.

“I bet I know what you get,” said Sera.

“Please,” grumbled Dorian.

“Well, I think it’s romantic,” said Cassandra.

“It’s romantic alright,” said Sera. “All that grunting and pushing and pumping and grinding and…”

“Sera,” said Dorian. “Please.”

“Love is in the air,” tittered Cassandra. “It’s like the tales…”

“Yes, it is rather storybook,” said Dorian, rolling his eyes. “Isn’t that right, Inquisitor?” He nudged her.

She nodded, words caught.

“Your face,” said Cassandra.

Fen’Asha instinctively raised her hand to her lips.

“No,” said Cassandra. “Your…I mean, your Dalish markings.”

“Oh,” said Fen’Asha.

“I didn’t know they…came off?” said Cassandra, shrugging to Iron Bull.

“Most Dalish would agree,” said Solas.

“How then…?” said Cassandra.

“It was done in a private moment,” said Solas.

“Of course,” said Cassandra. She slipped behind Iron Bull and looked at her feet as they worked their way across the bridge.

“ _Ar lasa mala revas_ ,” Cole said. “You are so beautiful. But then you turned away. Why?”

“I had no choice,” Solas whispered.

“We…can hear you,” said Dorian as the group began to draw back.

“She is bare-faced, ashamed. She doesn’t know,” said Cole. “She thinks it’s her.”

“You cannot heal this,” said Solas. “Let it go, please.”

“No,” said Fen’Asha. She stopped and faced Cole. “Please. I’d like to hear what you have to say.”

Cole stopped, so did everyone else. “He hurts,” he said. “An old pain, from before. When everything sang the same. You are real. That means everyone could be real. That changes everything. They sleep, masked in mirrors. Hiding. To…”

“Yes?” said Fen’Asha, leaning on her staff.

“Where did it go?” said Cole. He looked around.

“I am sorry,” said Solas. “That is a pain you cannot heal.” He walked forward.

Eventually, the rest of the group followed without word. Iron Bull and Dorian exchanged glances, while Cassandra continued to stare at her feet. It was the safest place to draw her eyes, it seemed.

Ahead, the dragon roared its invitation.


	32. Pt.2 - Fen: Burned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got no salvation. Got no religion. My religion is you. Take a bite of my bad girl meat. Take a bite of me, boy.  
> \- “Teeth” Lady Gaga

The roar of the dragon excited the group and they ran for it, bowling up to the towering coliseum’s remains. The Hivernal seemed to be awaiting the group, almost sitting atop the structure in a pool of water and ice.

“ _Taarsidath-an halsaam,_ ” Iron Bull thundered as the group took the stairs.

“What does that gibberish mean?” asked Sera.

“The closest translation would be…” Iron Bull said, nearly stopping on his way up the steps. “I will bring myself sexual pleasure later while thinking about this with great respect.”

Fen’Asha raised an eyebrow. “Interesting,” she said.

“ _Ataashi_ ,” beamed Iron Bull. “The glorious ones. That’s our word for them.”

“We’re not killing one of your gods, are we?” said Sera.

“Nah,” said Iron Bull. “Maybe one of Dorian’s…”

“Don’t start,” said Dorian.

Iron Bull roared with laughter.

The scene of the Hivernal soon became apparent, as did the chill in the rocks surrounding the beast. Its eye caught the group and the dragon took to action, swinging its great tail first and swooping so that its entire massive form spun around in place. Water splashed as it danced forward, groping claws grinding at the ice below.

“It’s fucking cold up here,” said Iron Bull. “I’ll give it that.”

“Spread out,” said Fen’Asha as she assessed the Hivernal’s movements.

The neck of the dragon craned to watch the Inquisition scatter into different corners. It kept pushing forward, scrabbling to the top of the stairs and narrowly missing Cole with a swooping claw. Ice burst from the ground as the rogue rolled out of the way and landed atop the stone archway topping the steps.

Fen’Asha twisted her staff in her hands and let fly a blast of flame, which caught the dragon at the tip of its tail. It was a greeting, a flaming burst to get its attention.

It worked.

The Hivernal spun again, tail catching on the stone and ice and spreading debris as it rotated its way to the Inquisitor. She held her ground, meeting its eye as it snarled and began to plunge toward her.

“This dragon’s hurt,” shouted Iron Bull over the racket.

Fen’Asha gritted her teeth and let another burst of flame go from the tip of her staff, scorching the front paw of the dragon. It staggered backward like a wounded animal, limping and clattering around like a massive nug with a broken leg. The water was proving more difficult to move in than before and the flames lapped at the scaly skin of the Hivernal, magic keeping them burning regardless of any frozen temptations below.

She closed her eyes as the Inquisition gathered around the dragon, tentatively firing an arrow here and letting loose with a sweep of a sword there. Iron Bull roared with delight as his axe caught itself in the scaly underbelly of the Hivernal. The beast responded with a wailing sound, a great screech that nearly shattered the stone.

Fen’Asha shouted too, aiming her staff right at the roaring Hivernal’s open mouth. She let fly and…nothing. A burst of black erupted from her staff and the dragon clattered further forward. Fen’Asha scanned her surroundings and watched the others. Nobody noticed. She was sure of it.

The Hivernal noticed and staggered ever forward, limping heavily. Something was inhibiting its flight and Sera took it upon herself to pump the base of the wings with arrows, turning the scaly flesh into a veritable pincushion before hopping back to her position with a cackle.

Fen’Asha took her opportunity to nail the dragon with yet another blast of flame and this one stuck, erupting from her staff and catching the hobbled creature in the joint of the leg. It collapsed to the ground, flat on its belly. It cried loudly.

Fen’Asha raced to the other mages as the dragonlings emerged from tiny corridors embedded in the ice. They lacked the snap and size of the larger Hivernal, but they had to go.

She set wards in hopes of trapping the dragonlings and the little ones raced right for her circles of fire – and raced right through them. The wards all but fizzled out, smoke rising but no damage dealt to the dragonlings. She checked the tip of her staff, noticing Solas’ eyes out of the corner of her perspective. He watched her as he blasted the dragonlings with expert precision, icy blares catching them and sending them to quick, noisy deaths.

Iron Bull was shouting and slashing away at the Hivernal when the dragon shifted and got some of its bearings back, shuffling clumsily toward the Qunari and swinging its enormous head in a last effort. It caught Bull by surprise and he was tossed into the air, landing with a splash nearby. His axe landed with a splash next to him.

Cassandra was swinging her sword on the other side, lashing at the dragon’s tail with Sera shooting arrows.

“Boss?” said Iron Bull as he sloshed to his feet.

Fen’Asha was staring at her staff, trying but failing to work up another blast of flame for the Hivernal’s waiting maw. The dragon was helplessly crawling around in a half-circle, weapons tearing her apart. It was clinging to life, warped and hideous cries echoing, water sloshing around its lumbering form. It raised a heavy claw, thwacking Iron Bull once more.

Fen’Asha grunted as she burst past the Qunari, clutching his weapon out of the water and launching herself toward the Hivernal’s waiting mouth. She swung the axe, letting its heaviness carry her through. The thrust of the blade landed on the bottom of the dragon’s gaping hole, splitting through the lower jaw and tongue. The gruesome cry that followed drained quickly and the Hivernal drew its last noisy, coarse breath before spattering down feebly in the water. Its blood seemed from the gaping mouth, coating the slick steel of Iron Bull’s massive axe and gushing on Fen’Asha as she exhaled heavily.

The Inquisitor knelt in the water, gasping for air before the open, dead mouth of the Hivernal.

“Maker…” said Cassandra as she raced to the front of the dead beast.

Iron Bull sloshed forward in the bloody water and wrenched his axe out of the Hivernal’s mouth like he was tearing it from a tree stump. “Not bad, boss,” he said. He clutched his shoulder.

“You better have that looked at back at camp,” said Dorian.

“I’ll be fine,” said Iron Bull, despite the rivulets of blood running down his arm. He grunted and surveyed the fallen Hivernal. “ _Ataashi_.”

After ensuring there were no remaining dragonlings, the Inquisition cleared the area and began the trek down the stairs.

“Inquisitor,” said Solas. “What happened?”

“What do you mean, Solas?” said Fen’Asha, patting down her blood-and-water-soaked top.

“Your magic…” said Solas. “It came up short, did it not?”

“I haven’t been sleeping,” said Fen’Asha vacantly.

“Ah,” said Solas.

Fen’Asha absently wrenched out her hair, finding pale red flowing from its tips.

“Any lack of rest on your end is understandable given recent events, Inquisitor,” said Solas.

“I am grateful for your understanding,” said Fen’Asha. She stared straight ahead, continuing the walk down the stone steps. She swore she heard Sera gulp.

“You surprise me,” said Solas.

“Would you care to come to the point, Solas,” snapped Fen’Asha.

The Inquisition slowed, ears and eyes wide open.

“I simply expected more _fire_ from you, Inquisitor,” said Solas.

“More fire?” said Fen’Asha.

“You are not made of stone,” said Solas. “Suppressing your emotions is likely leading to your current inability to…”

“Yes?” said Fen’Asha. She stopped in mid-stride.

Sera definitely gulped.

Solas stiffened. “Put your pain to good use,” he said. “Harden your heart to a cutting edge.”

Iron Bull coughed, so did Dorian.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” she said.

Sera cleared her throat and Cassandra sat down.

“I am merely asking you to be honest,” said Solas. “With yourself, Inquisitor. You have endured much.”

“Are you well enough to fight another dragon, Inquisitor?” said Cassandra.

Fen’Asha sighed. “I am,” she said. She looked at the waiting Inquisition and waved them onward.

“You’re certain?” asked Cassandra.

“She is upset, she just…” ventured Solas.

“I am certain,” said Fen’Asha. “And I am not _upset_.”

“Embrace your feelings,” said Solas.

“Embrace this,” said Sera, presumably forming some sort of rude gesture with her fingers.

Fen’Asha glared at Solas.

“A cutting edge...” he said.

“A cutting edge this,” said Sera.

The Inquisitor clenched her fists and turned on her heel, marching down the remainder of the steps. The Inquisition gathered itself and followed, Sera bringing up the rear with squelching noises and more hand gestures directed at Solas. Cole walked silently.

“We fight on,” said Fen’Asha when they reached the bottom of the stairs. “Bull and Dorian can return to camp to see to his wounds. The rest of you can come with me. Or you can rest and _I_ ’ _ll_ take the fucking Kaltenzahn myself.”

Solas frowned. “Inquisitor,” he said as the group collected around Fen’Asha. “There is…”

“Are you coming?” said the Inquisitor as she marched toward the next dragon.

Sera, Cole, Solas, and Cassandra followed, looking down into the snow.

The Kaltenzahn had originated in the Hunterhorn Mountains of western Thedas, but they migrated south and began to settle in more isolated locations. Many scholars suspected the darkspawn of driving the Kaltenzahn out of the Hunterhorn Mountains, while others blamed the Archdemon. Regardless, the great beast roared at the Inquisition’s arrival and moved quickly.

Fen’Asha snarled as she greeted the Kaltenzahn and raised her staff, with the remaining Inquisition standing behind her. Before anyone could move, she shouted and released an enormous tendril of flame.

It came in droves, like waves of pain and anger and hunger. It burned like the Conclave, like Haven, like Clan Lavellan, like love lost to the corpses of time and neglect and…mistakes.

She sneered. She growled. She screamed.

“Sweet Maker…” said Cassandra.

“Holy fuck,” said Sera.

“Inquisitor…” said Solas.

The Kaltenzahn’s head didn’t so much as explode but melt, with simmering, scorching fire bursting from every orifice as the Inquisitor wailed and shouted and cursed. She stood in one place, feet planted firmly with her staff aloft, and the burst of flame was ceaseless for the course of several seconds. It was an explosion rather than a sleek line of flame, an eruption rather than precise spirit.

The dragon’s eyes and nostrils were smoking, thick goop dripping from the holes. By all rights, the brain of the Kaltenzahn had melted inside its head. It had been cooked, scorched into nothingness by Fen’Asha’s fire.

With one more blast and one more screech, Fen’Asha let loose another column of red. The Kaltenzahn exploded, shattered pieces of skull and globs of melted brain splattering over the field of snow.

“Holy fuck,” repeated Sera.

Fen’Asha snarled one last time and planted her staff in the ground like a flag, like the flag of the Inquisitor.

“Inquisitor…” repeated Solas.

“There’s your fucking cutting edge,” growled Fen’Asha.


	33. Pt.2 - Fen: Butchered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is nothing staring back at me. I'm in need of the sound. Hungry for the kill, but this hunger, it isn't you. Voices disappear when you are speaking, in somber tunes. I will be the wolf and when you're starving, you'll need it too. Hungry for the kill, but this hunger, it isn't you.  
> \- “Hunger” Of Monsters And Men

“Inquisitor, stop,” said Solas.

Fen’Asha was trudging away from him, away from the blood-spattered scene of the now-headless Kaltenzahn and its trails of guts and brains. The snow kicked up under her heavy steps as she went, her staff swinging.

Sera and Cassandra walked next to her, while Solas fell into a slower gait after his urgings failed to rouse the Inquisitor. Cole walked beside him, trying to draw attention to the crystallized trees and the ice-sculpted peaks in the distance.

“It is lovely,” Solas said at last.

“Even the hottest fire cannot melt the heart,” said Cole. “It cries out, but there are no tears. There is no water to fall, nothing in the bones. It lingers, but lifeless.”

“There is life, still,” said Solas. “But it is distant.”

“Something blocks it,” said Cole. “Something cold.”

“Ice,” said Solas. “It appears you are speaking in circles.”

Cole paused to snap an icicle from the limb of a tree. “Breath touched by ice is visible to the eye,” he said. “With breath touched by ice, she could see your intentions…”

Fen’Asha pretended not to hear as she neared what looked to be a hollowed-out arena. The Highland Ravager lay inside.

“What was this used for?” Cassandra wondered as she looked up at the multi-level structure.

“Nug fights,” said Sera with a snicker.

Solas strode to the front of the Inquisition and looked up at the arena. “It has been overgrown by time,” he said. “We should be cautious.”

Fen’Asha sighed and stomped forward.

The group followed, Solas carefully eyeing the Inquisitor as she scaled around the bottom of the arena and found the entrance point. She stalked through it.

The Highland Ravager lay on the ground, just like the Kaltenzahn before her. One of the most dangerous breeds of dragon in Thedas, the Highland Ravagers were social animals. Luckily, this dragon was alone. There was little room in the arena for a companion anyway, so its choice of solitude was probably a good thing.

The Ravager snarled and turned in place, its great wings struggling to achieve their full span without scraping against the stone walls.

“How did she get in here?” asked Cassandra as she drew her sword and walked onto the floor of the arena.

“She is agitated,” said Solas. “Do not mistake its silence for…”

With a shout, Fen’Asha sprang ahead of Cassandra and aimed a plume of flame at the head of the Highland Ravager. She called out for the duration of the blast, expecting to see a smoking, devastated cranium – just like the Kaltenzahn’s.

There was nothing.

The flame struck the side of the dragon, but it didn’t move. It didn’t yelp or wail. It didn’t thrash against the too-small confines of the arena. It didn’t lift a massive eyelid. It sat. After a while it huffed.

“Shit,” said Sera. “Move.” She skittered into the arena, following Cassandra to the far side while Fen’Asha examined her staff and positioned herself on the opposite wall. Solas planted himself at the entrance, with Cole scaling the side wall above the action.

“Charge the leg,” directed Fen’Asha as she readied her staff for another blast.

Sera snapped off a pair of arrows and struck the Ravager in the back of the leg, finally drawing a reaction from the massive dragon. It shuffled, not hurt but uncomfortable. The wings spun, dragging against the stone walls and heaving chunks of rock down into the arena.

Cole skidded aside from a wing and leapt, landing lightly on the back of the dragon. He went to work with dizzying speed, a flash of silver as his daggers pummeled the Ravager on the back of the neck. Blood sprayed into the air as Cole leapt off, barely ducking the dragon’s snapping jaws.

Fen’Asha released a stream of ice, finally honing her spell as she wanted. She positioned the blast perfectly, catching the Ravager where Cole’s blades had just sliced it open. The bitter discharge must have stung because the dragon roared an ungodly noise to the heavens and shuddered itself around to the Inquisitor’s position, jaws snapping and mouth roiling open.

“Move,” shouted Sera from the other side.

Fen’Asha leapt and raced out of the way as the Highland Ravager unleashed a torrent of unbelievable fire. The heat charred her hair, singed her clothing. She was safe, however, and rolled to a kneeling position on the ground. The dirt around her was hot to the touch and she had to move quickly to avoid the spread of fire.

Sera rattled off several more arrows as Cassandra pushed herself around to the front of the Ravager, scarcely missing its chomping mouth. She lunged forward, pressing her shield against the scaly flesh and burying her sword several times wherever she could. She lunged back and rolled out of the way as the great jaw snapped in her direction. She gasped as the Ravager’s head clanged against her shield and she buckled from the impact, stumbling to a position near Solas.

Fen’Asha used the distraction to release another blast of ice, once again positioning her magic where the Ravager was vulnerable. And once again, the Ravager rumbled its condemnation and groped around in smashing, exasperated strokes.

“We’re getting it,” said Sera.

“We’re not,” said Cassandra. “It’s too strong.”

Before Fen’Asha could speak, the Ravager freed another deluge of fire from its endless gullet. This blast was sent toward Solas and the Seeker, who rolled to the side just in time.

“Head for higher ground,” said Solas as he rose to his feet and dodged the barking jaws. He pushed Cassandra up on a nearby rock and gestured for Fen’Asha to do the same.

She looked behind and found her path up, a staggered collection of stones that had clearly fallen from nearby cliffs. Some sort of rockslide benefitted the Inquisition and Cassandra was moving around the arena using the rocks as steps, but she was no longer close enough to strike. That seemed to irritate her as she drew closer to Fen’Asha’s side of the fight.

Solas followed her, sending off blasts of ice to the back of the Ravager’s neck.

The beast was turning in the arena, using its jaws to lap at the feet of the running and climbing Inquisition. It snarled and roared its displeasure, clearly appreciating the fight on the ground. It opened its mouth, gnashed its horrible teeth and threatened another surge of fire with a series of guttural noises.

Cole and Sera had also made for higher ground and were using the rock “steps” to get to an upper ledge.

Only Fen’Asha remained in the arena with the dragon. She looked up at Solas as he gestured for her to start the climb. She shook her head.

“Inquisitor,” he shouted.

She bolted straight for the Highland Ravager, staff extended fully. She ran as fast as she could, nearly slipping on the snowy floor of the arena before she reached the mouth of the monster. The dragon opened the hole dutifully, preparing to chomp on Fen’Asha’s blonde locks and meaty form. It gasped when it realized what was happening, when it realized that the Inquisitor had actually run _into_ her mouth.

The Inquisition shouted in unison when they saw their leader disappear into the Highland Ravager’s mouth. Four or five curses blended into one cacophony of shock and Solas leapt down from the ledge, dropping onto the arena floor with a clatter.

The Highland Ravager seemed the most surprised. It wriggled fiercely, making grating sounds like it was trying to exorcize a bothersome fennec from its esophagus. It lurched forward and back, wings flapping helplessly as a sudden surge of ice and electricity burst from the middle of its throat and shredded through the entire bottom of its mandible.

Fen’Asha screamed as her magic ruptured from within her, as her ice and lightning and rage ruptured through the dragon’s throat, trunk and mouth.

The Highland Ravager split open, blood and organs spilling into the arena in a shocking rush of heat and stink. A mass of dragon swill oozed out from the gaping hole, coating the Inquisitor in slippery black and red excretion as she stood openmouthed in what was left of the beast’s esophagus.

Solas stared. Sera and Cassandra gagged. Cole closed his eyes.

When the dust and stench settled, Solas reached the Inquisitor and pulled her from the dragon’s ragged orifice. He coughed as she reached him, her hands wobbly and her legs shaking. She was quivering against his outstretched limbs, shaking against his tentative form.

She whispered his name as consciousness left her and she tumbled into his arms.

 

When life returned, her head was in a million pieces. She inhaled. Elfroot soap. She touched her face, finding it smooth. Her hair, too, was untangled and down over her shoulders. She closed her eyes again.

“You’re awake,” came a voice. It was Solas.

She nodded and turned. She opened her eyes again, seeing him sitting with the light at his back. She grimaced. As the light settled, she noticed he’d been reading a book.

“You’ve been asleep for nearly a day,” he said. He turned a page.

“I needed it,” she said.

“Indeed you did,” he said. He closed his book. He peered out of the open flap of the tent and closed it tight.

“Something wrong?” she asked.

“What were you thinking?” he said.

“I don’t…”

“That display of power, that performance,” he said. His voice was aggressive, nearly hissing.

“I…” The thoughts swirled together. She began to piece the memories together, finding herself inside the Ravager again.

“You must master your emotions, Inquisitor,” said Solas.

“Thank you for the reminder,” she retorted. She sat up.

“This is my fault,” he said. He looked down. “I should have ended it long before. I never wanted to…”

“Stop it,” she said. “Just. Stop. I know it was all a mistake. I understand.”

“That’s not…”

“Please,” she said. “Mistakes have a way of following me around. Like demons.”

He shook his head.

“Trust me,” she scoffed. “They’ve been piling up lately.”

“It’s not your fault,” said Solas. “None of this…”

“Stop,” said Fen’Asha. “I can handle myself.”

Solas shook his head. “That was never in doubt. But this anger…”

“I am not angry at you,” she said. “And I don’t blame you. We never stated our intentions…”

“There is much beyond your understanding,” said Solas. “Perhaps there is even much beyond mine.”

She stared at him. “I…” she said.

“I will always…” he said. He stopped himself, retrieved his book, stood.

“Solas?”

“I believe Leliana has news,” he said as he turned to leave. “It’s about Blackwall.”


	34. Pt.2 - Fen: Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're too similar. Losing our minds with cabin fever. Shut in confined spaces, lost in the dark. My heart taken and resting on your heart. And we were in flames, I needed, I needed you. To run through my veins, like disease, disease. And now we are strange strangers.  
> \- “Winter” Daughter

The Inquisitor wasn’t exactly the sort to blend in to a crowd and it wasn’t long before the throng in the Val Royeaux square began to murmur her name. It took their attention away from the hangman’s platform, with its executioners and thick rope, but it didn’t stop the proceedings.

Days ago, Fen’Asha received notice from one of Leliana’s contacts that Blackwall had left. He left behind a note stating his intentions to “right past wrongs” and was gone. There was a small search that turned up a notation about the execution of a man named Mornay in Val Royeaux. This Mornay character had done the bidding of one Thom Rainier and was accused of the brutal annihilation of Lord Vincent Callier and his entire family.

A man in a hood, presumably Mornay, was on his knees on the platform while the executioner stood behind him. A soldier in silver armour was reading the details of the crime to the crowd.

A voice shouted something from the right side of the platform and that’s when Blackwall appeared, striding up the stairs to where the doomed man was facing his final judgement.

Fen’Asha’s eyes widened as she watched him.

“This man is innocent,” said Blackwall. “Orders were given and he followed. He should not die for that.”

The soldier in silver armour crossed his arms. “Who gave the order?”

“I gave the order,” said Blackwall, looking down.

The crowd murmured.

“Blackwall?” blurted Fen’Asha.

The crowd turned to see where the outburst had come from and murmured all the louder.

“Control yourselves,” shouted the silver soldier, lifting his helmet.

“I am not Blackwall,” said…”Blackwall.” He stared out at the crowd, trying to find the source of the shouting.

Mornay shifted under his hood.

“I was never Blackwall,” continued…”Blackwall.”

“After all this time…” called Mornay.

“You shut up,” cried the executioner, knocking Mornay on the back of the head with the butt end of a sword.

“I am Thom Rainier,” said…Thom Rainier. “Warden Blackwall has been dead for years. I assumed his name to hide…like a coward.”

The crowd muttered again and the volume rose as the silver soldier conferred with the executioner. They flipped through a stack of papers, looked around, talked seriously. After a while, they decided what they were going to do and dragged the comatose Mornay off the platform. After another while, the silver soldier apparently remembered Rainier and roped his hands, pulling him away as well.

Fen’Asha followed the guard as he tugged Rainier to the dungeons of Val Royeaux. She waited, pacing in front of the place until another guard appeared to light the torch for the coming darkness. They exchanged looks.

She didn’t know what she was waiting for.

Blackwall was Thom Rainier. He was a fraud, responsible for a massacre. He should be left to rot, shouldn’t he?

She pushed open the heavy door to the dungeon anyway, informing the guard of the obvious facts and insisting on seeing Rainier in his cell. The guard shrugged, retrieved a hanging set of keys from the wall and walked the Inquisitor down a set of stairs to the sunken prison cells. He opened the first metal gate and swung it open, producing a deafening screeching sound in the process.

“Place is falling apart,” he said absently.

Several bearded men scowled, spat and made gestures at the Inquisitor as she walked by. The guard shouted at a few and eventually led her to the end cell, where Rainier sat on a bench. When he saw the Inquisitor, he put his head in his hands.

“Why did you come?” he muttered.

“I don’t know,” said Fen’Asha, her fingers gripping the bars.

“You should leave me,” he said. He stood. “I insist you leave me, Inquisitor.”

“Believe me,” she said. “I’m considering it.”

“Yes, well,” said the guard with a cough. “I’ll leave you two…” He shuffled backward.

“I didn’t take Blackwall’s life,” said Rainier after the guard’s departure.

Fen’Asha crossed her arms.

“I traded his death,” continued Rainier. “He wanted me for the Wardens, but there was an ambush. He was killed. I took his name to stop the world from losing a good man…”

“You ordered the slaughter of the Callier family,” she said.

Rainier sat back down. “Yes,” he said. “I did.”

“Why?”

“It was an order from Ser Robert Chapuis,” he said. “An order to attack one of Celene’s allies, Lord Callier. I passed the order to my men, told them it was important. The attack turned into a slaughter…”

“You were following orders…” said Fen’Asha.

“I was _giving_ orders,” Rainier said. “When word came out of the massacre, Gaspard denied everything. Chapuis killed himself. I fled. And my men faced the executioner’s noose. Mornay would have been the next to hang…”

“And that’s when Blackwall – the _real_ Blackwall – found you?”

Rainier nodded. “In Churneau…”

Fen’Asha paced.

“A barmaid was being harassed by local thugs,” said Rainier. “I stepped in. Blackwall took notice, saw my skill, asked me to join the Wardens.”

“He saw something in you,” Fen’Asha reasoned.

Rainier shook his head. “I don’t know what he saw,” he said.

“He saw courage,” said Fen’Asha. She stepped back from the bars.

“He saw a monster, a useful monster,” said Rainier.

“A monster wouldn’t be here,” said the Inquisitor. “You turned yourself in, stopped living a lie. That counts for something.”

Rainier looked at her and shook his head. “It doesn’t count for much,” he said. “Leave me.”

Fen’Asha nodded and headed back to the guard, who was snoozing. He snapped alert when she rattled his keys.

“Yes, yes,” he sputtered.

“I want him released to the Inquisition,” said Fen’Asha. “I want a transport of two guards to bring him to Skyhold.”

“I…”

“You’ll have to check with your guard captain,” said Fen’Asha with a smirk.

“Yes, yes,” said the guard. “I’ll have to check with the guard captain.”

“Good,” said Fen’Asha.

“Good,” said the guard. He began flipping absently through a pile of papers on his desk.

Fen’Asha cleared her throat.

“Oh,” said the guard. “Now?”

“Now.”

The guard half-stood, then looked at the keys. “You’ll watch the…”

“I’ll watch the…dungeon,” said Fen’Asha. She tapped her mage staff.

“Right,” said the guard. “Because the guard captain lives just down the…”

“Yes,” said Fen’Asha. “Run.”

“Right,” said the guard. He stood up all the way and raced out of the prison, leaving the door wide open behind him.

 

Back at Skyhold, Fen’Asha took respite in Josephine’s news that Rainier was being returned to the Inquisition with two guards.

Sleep was still fleeting and her room was still faceless, so the Inquisitor often found herself walking the grounds as the moon crept across the sky. The air was cool and she took to a tree, running her fingers along the bark, feeling its grooves, noting its age. The leaves tickled her skin and beckoned to her, so she climbed. Hoisting herself up at the crook of a thick branch, she rested her head against the trunk.

She took her sleeping draught and nestled her head.

* * *

 

“ _Mamae_ has given us so much,” Varnehn was saying.

He stood with his back to Fen’Asha, overlooked the verdant forest glen that cradled the crystal blue lake. The water shimmered under the rays of the auburn sun. He wore his robes for summer, elaborate greens and light browns. His hair thick.

Fen’Asha sat in the grass. She was at peace, even happy. It had been a wonderful afternoon.

“ _Mamae_ has given us food to eat,” Varnehn said.

Fen’Asha smiled, listening to the lilting sounds of children’s voices.

“ _Mamae_ has given us a place to live,” Varnehn said.

The children cooed, wiggling happily in Varnehn’s arms.

“ _Mamae_ has given us protection,” he continued.

They wiggled more, the cooing sounds deepening. The water of the lake lapped at the nearby shore, tricking up to Varnehn’s bare feet in little frothy ripples.

“And she never asked for anything in return,” he said.

The sunlight warmed to a deep red, slowly overtaking the crystal blue of the lake and darkening it into a spectral navy hue. The forest deepened, grew denser. The animals tittered, birds soaring up and away.

“But _Mamae_ didn’t know when to look away,” said Varnehn.

Fen’Asha raised her eyebrows, looking around. The grass cooled. She ran her fingers through the green blades and red collected on her hands.

“She didn’t know when to turn away,” said Varnehn.

“Varnehn…” she said.

“She always had her head in the clouds,” he muttered. “In the trees…”

She watched as he took a tentative step toward the water. The children fussed, giggled.

“ _Mamae_ always thought about him,” Varnehn said. “Always them.”

“Them…”

“ _Mamae_ gave you so much,” said Varnehn. “And I asked for so little…” He took another step toward the water.

Fen’Asha stood and shouted as he continued walking, step by wretched step into the rising water. She wrenched her legs forward to run but collapsed in the grass around her, coated in red from the green blades. She stared at her hands, slicked with crimson.

“I only asked for her,” said Varnehn. His voice rang as he waded into the water up to his hips, the children silent in his arms.

“No,” Fen’Asha screeched. She scrambled to her feet, but the grass sucked her in. It clung to her legs, growing now into long, thick, thorny strands. A thicket, confining her and pinning her to the ground. She struggled, thrashing her arms and legs, trying to free herself. The thorns tore her flesh.

“I didn’t ask for much,” said Varnehn. He was up to his chest in water now. It lapped at the children and they cried, shrieking to the unseeing sun.

“He isn’t real,” came a voice.

The sun blared in Fen’Asha’s face and she struggled to stand again. She reached her knees, felt the burning and scraping and bleeding.

“You know this,” said the voice.

“You,” snarled Varnehn. He turned around, water sloshing around him. He stared at Fen’Asha, glaring with black, hollow eyes.

She screamed when she saw the children, pale faces lined with thick blue veins. Bloodshot eyes, swollen mouths. Toothless maws. They howled, wailing and deafening cries.

“I don’t ask for much,” stammered Varnehn. “But you have to take it…”

“Away,” said the voice.

She recognized it with a gasp and cried again as she tried to wrench herself from the thorns.

“Solas,” snarled Varnehn. He splashed forward, stomping through the water with the children wailing in his arms.

“I said away,” said Solas as he stepped forward away from the glare of the sun.

Fen’Asha found herself staring at him. She stopped struggling.

“I would’ve protected her,” snarled Varnehn. “I wouldn’t have left her when she needed me most. I wouldn’t have…”

“If you value your existence…” said Solas.

“I would have comforted her,” said Varnehn. His voice was losing its strength, weakening somehow.

“Fen’Asha,” said Solas.

The sound of her name drove her into the earth, sank her into the grass. She felt the dirt, the ground. “You’re…here,” she whispered.

“You are his mistake, _lath_ ,” snarled Varnehn.

“Mind yourself,” said Solas. He turned his gaze back to Fen’Asha.

“Use your head,” said Varnehn.

“You must banish him, Fen’Asha,” said Solas. “You and you alone…”

She narrowed her eyes at Varnehn.

“ _Fenedhis_ ,” he grumbled. “ _Solas ena mar din_.”

“Leave me,” she sighed. “ _Halam sahlin_.”

Varnehn turned to say something else, but his image flickered before Fen’Asha’s eyes. The water flickered too and all in it vanished, fading into nothingness. The forest, the grass, the blood…

The children…

Solas’ hand gripped her, pulled her up.

They stood beside each other on black sand, watching the void before them.

“You ask too much of yourself,” said Solas.

Fen’Asha stared straight ahead.

“Your clan…Corypheus,” continued Solas. “It is too much for anyone to bear.”

“I don’t have a choice,” said Fen’Asha.

“But you are not to blame…”

“How would you know?” she said.

The black sand twisted, shifted underneath them.

“Because I know you,” said Solas.

Fen’Asha scoffed. “My indifference was my decision,” she said. “I could have spared the troops, sent for them, done something…”

“You did what you thought was right,” said Solas.

“I could have done more,” spat Fen’Asha.

 “I have only ever seen you do your very best,” said Solas. “ _Ir abelas, ma Vhenan_.”

“Solas, stop,” said Fen’Asha.

“ _Mala suledin nadas_ ,” continued Solas. “Endure.”

“Leave,” said Fen’Asha.

“It’s your dream,” Solas said.

“My dream?” sneered Fen’Asha. She looked to him. “Then tell me you don’t care.”

Solas frowned.

“Tell me I was some sort of casual dalliance.”

“I’m sorry…” Solas shook his head. “I can’t.”

“You can’t?” she glowered. “You can’t?” she clenched her fists. “You…cold…”

She inhaled, bit down on the words, turned from him. The ocean a yawning chasm before her, waves lapping at her bare feet. She shook her head, plunged into the void.


	35. Pt.2 - Fen: Faithful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone. No more calling like a crow for a boy, for a body in the garden. No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love… No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love… No more dreaming like a girl so in love with the wrong world.  
> \- “Blinding” Florence + The Machine

She was falling. Her eyes snapped open and she tilted, splashing down out of her tree.

But she was caught from tumbling to the ground, caught by warmth and something stable. She lurched, opened her eyes.

It was Cullen.

He caught her around the waist and she wrapped her legs around him, clinging. He took a step back, cradling her. He gasped, collected himself and let her stand on her own two feet.

She exhaled, touched her face. Tears.

“Inquisitor?” said Cullen, rubbing the back of his neck. “Are you alright?”

“A bad dream…”

Cullen nodded. “I didn’t get a chance to speak with you, but your clan…”

Fen’Asha nodded.

“I am sorry,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said.

Cullen stood quite still for a moment, then seemed to remember his purpose. “Yes, well,” he said. “I was on my way to the prayer chamber. And I saw you…sleeping…in…in a tree.”

Fen’Asha flushed.

“Would you…” he said before shaking his head.

“Would I…?”

“Would you care to join me, Inquisitor?” said Cullen. “In the prayer chamber. To pray. I have found comfort there.”

Fen’Asha crossed her arms behind her back. “I suppose I could,” she said. She nodded. “Yes, that would be nice.”

They strolled through the garden, taking in the dark green under the night’s blanket of stillness.

“Do you remember Haven?” said Cullen. “After…I mean.”

Fen’Asha nodded. How could she forget?

“I asked myself again and again what I could have done differently,” he said. “Could I have been more prepared? Could I have known? Was there some piece of information, some report, I missed? I didn’t sleep for days, my mind plagued by regret.”

Fen’Asha watched him, watched his eyes.

“I put everything I had into Skyhold,” he said, looking up at the soaring, proud towers. “I had to make sure Haven didn’t happen again.”

“How?” she said faintly.

“I searched every corridor of this place, walked every rampart, examined every single crack in the wall,” said Cullen. “I found solutions, but I always found more problems. I always found more questions, more uncertainty.”

They reached a door and he tugged it open.

“But then, I found this,” he said. He gestured to the striking statue of Andraste, the one at the end of the small room. A red carpet lay on the floor and a small stack of books sat atop a table. There were some candles.

Fen’Asha inhaled.

“I remembered that it wasn’t all up to me,” said Cullen. He looked up at Andraste and shook his head. “It is only by the Maker’s grace we were delivered.”

Fen’Asha smiled and closed her eyes.

“Though before me, all is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide,” said Cullen, closing his eyes. “I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness in the Maker’s light and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.”

“That’s beautiful,” she said.

“A prayer for those we have lost,” said Cullen. “And those I am afraid to lose.”

She nodded.

“I have found comfort in faith when life offered little,” he continued. “We must draw strength where we can.”

Fen’Asha looked up at Andraste, up at the figure looking down at her. She, too, suffered her dreams. She, too, prayed in vain…

Cullen knelt before the statue, turning to silent prayer.

She knelt beside him and held her prayer stone once more.

She returned to her room after, finding the moon’s radiance on the golden statue of Fen’Harel. Finding it tilted against a book on her desk, placed carelessly by the maid. She stroked the gilded texture, touched the snout, and returned it to its upright position.

                            

She rose to business. Thom Rainier awaited judgement at the hands of the Inquisition.

Fen’Asha paced near the throne, the usual throng of visitors, nobles, soldiers, and others flocking the main hall. Rainier would be led in within the next several hours and she huffed, her mind crowded. She walked quickly, instinctively through the crowd and pushed through a side door. She walked through a brief opening and found herself again in the middle of the rotunda.

Why?

“Inquisitor,” said Solas before Fen’Asha could turn around.

“Solas.”

“May I assist you?”

They stared at each other.

“Thom Rainier arrives,” she said. “Do…you have any opinion on the matter of his verdict?”

“That decision is ultimately yours, Inquisitor,” he said.

“But you were friends…” she said.

Solas shook his head. “I assumed we were alike,” he said. “We had seen war, knew its costs but understood its necessity. But there was nothing necessary in his actions, Inquisitor. He did not survive death. He seeded it to feed his own wishes.”

Fen’Asha nodded.

“He wore another’s skin,” Solas continued. “Ran away.”

“He is repentant,” said Fen’Asha.

Solas nearly smiled, “True. My people had a saying long ago, the healer has the bloodiest hands… You cannot treat a wound without knowing how deep it goes. You cannot heal pain by hiding it,” Solas stepped toward her, then reconsidered and lowered his head to the papers on his desk. “It is your decision,” he said.

She watched him as his eyes darted away from her, away from the world. “Thank you, Solas, you...were helpful.”

“ _Dareth shiral_ ,” he said.

 

Fen’Asha wiled away the hours and finally Rainier appeared in the courtroom, led by two soldiers and bound by the arms and legs.

Josephine held the relevant documentation and rose. “I present Captain Thom Rainier,” she said. “His crimes are acknowledged and he has arrived at no small expense to the Inquisition.”

“Thank you, Josephine,” said Fen’Asha as she settled into her throne.

“Another thing to regret,” muttered Rainier. His beard was fuller but worn from the journey. “What did you have to do to release me?”

“That is none of your concern,” said Fen’Asha.

“The world will know how you used your influence,” said Rainier. He looked down. “A waste.”

“The decision was made,” said Fen’Asha.

“You should have left me,” said Rainier. “I was ready to die for what I have done. Why stop it? What becomes of me…?”

“You are free,” said Fen’Asha.

Rainier looked up and furrowed his brow. He shook his head. “No,” he said.

“No?”

“It cannot be as simple as that,” he said.

“You are free to atone as the man you are,” said Fen’Asha. “Not the traitor and certainly not the Grey Warden you pretended to be.”

Rainier shook his head again. “I…the man I am?” he spat the words.

Fen’Asha nodded.

“I barely know him,” he said quietly.

“Then I suggest you get started,” said Fen’Asha. “You have a lot to make up for.”

The guard moved to undo his shackles.

“How shall I refer to you?” asked Fen’Asha.

“I don’t understand,” he said, turning his wrists.

“Are you Thom Rainier or are you Warden Gordon Blackwall?”

He frowned. “I have gotten used to Blackwall,” he said. “Perhaps…perhaps it could be a title. A reminder of what I ought to be.”

Fen’Asha nodded and crossed her legs. “So it is. Take your post, Warden Gordon Blackwall.”

He bowed and turned around, stopping after a few steps. “Inquisitor?” he said.

She raised her eyebrows.

“Could we…not make use of ‘Gordon?’”

 

Sera corned Fen’Asha in the tavern, grinning at her impishly.

“Hi,” said Fen’Asha.

“Hi,” said Sera with a chuckle. “Looks like you’re feeling better. Heard about Gordon – _Gordon_ – Blackwall. Heard you have some time…”

“Where did…”

“Come on,” said Sera, dragging Fen’Asha helplessly behind her and up the stairs to her room.

The place was a mess, as it typically was, but a pink box sat on a stool in the middle. There was a bow around it with a tiny piece of paper attached. Sera pointed at it proudly.

Fen’Asha raised her eyebrows.

“Open it, you nutter,” said Sera.

Fen’Asha pulled the bow away and examined the piece of paper, which featured a drawing of her with what looked like enormous eyes with big circular pupils and hands…holding them. Those weren’t eyes.

“Pretty good likeness, yeah?” beamed Sera.

Fen’Asha shook her head and opened the box. Cookies.

“ _Raisin_ cookies,” said Sera.

Fen’Asha grinned and nodded. “Raisin cookies…”

“Don’t you like them?” said Sera, nudging the corner of the box.

“I love…cookies,” said Fen’Asha. “Especially raisin cookies.”

“Come on,” said Sera. She snatched the box out of Fen’Asha’s hands, spilling at least a half dozen cookies on her carpet. She skittered for the open window and slinked out on the overhang.

Fen’Asha joined her and saw Cassandra below, taking one whack after another at the training dummy.

Sera stuffed two cookies in her mouth.

Fen’Asha took one and nibbled at the corner of it.

“These are horrible,” mumbled Sera as a torrent of crumbs spilled from the corner of her mouth.

Fen’Asha shrugged and returned the nibbled-on cookie to the box.

“Raisins, too,” spat Sera. “What was I thinking? How did I let you talk me into making you raising cookies?”

“Sera…?”

“I still hate cookies,” said Sera.

“If you hate them, why are you stuffing your…why are you eating them?”

Sera shrugged. “See,” she said. “I got caught stealing when I was little, yeah? They give you alienage or worse for that. But some Lady Emmald took me in. She was sick, couldn’t have no kids. I couldn’t have no parents. It worked out.”

“Okay…”

“She gets sicker,” said Sera, retrieving another cookie. “So I ask her about cookies because mums make cookies and all that. Turns out, she can’t cook. She missed that talk. She bought cookies instead, pretended.”

Fen’Asha nodded.

“Sounds all honky-dory, right?” continued Sera. “Well, no. She was a prat. She hid buying them by keeping me away from the baker, see? She lied to me saying the baker didn’t like me, see? Didn’t like bleeding elves, see? I hated him for it and she let me to protect her pride. She died and I hate pride, so…”

Fen’Asha nodded again.

“So…pride cookies,” announced Sera as she raised another to her lips.

“Pride cookies…”

“And maybe you and I could make pride cookies or…something,” Sera said. “Then I could like cookies again. Us Cookies. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” said Fen’Asha.

“Really?” said Sera. She cocked her head. “It seemed pretty stupid to me.”

“Well…”

“Well…”

Fen’Asha brightened and took back her nibbled-on cookie, eyes glimmering with an idea. “These are…really better for throwing,” she said.

“Throwing?” said Sera.

Fen’Asha threw her cookie as far as she could, winging it in the direction of the nearby well. Instead of landing gracefully, it clanked off the helmet of a guard. He scanned the area and reached into the grass to locate the culprit. He looked around again before shrugging and slipping the offender into his mouth.

Sera and Fen’Asha doubled over, laughing noisily.

“What are you doing?” called Cassandra. She was standing below them.

“Talking…about you,” shouted Sera. “Dirty things.”

Cassandra shook her head. “You are not. Are those cookies?”

Fen’Asha nodded, lifting the box.

“I…I like cookies,” Cassandra said. She looked down.

Fen’Asha lifted one out of the box and waved it in the air.

Cassandra licked her lips.

Fen’Asha tossed the cookie off the roof and the Seeker snagged it, examining it briefly before stuffing it in her mouth.

Sera laughed again. “Give her the whole bleeding box,” she said.

Fen’Asha lowered the box off the roof’s edge and Cassandra eagerly accepted it, waving her full-mouthed gratitude and heading over to her favourite stump. She sat, produced a book, crossed her legs, and munched away.

“Let’s make more,” said Sera as they watched the Seeker.

“I don’t exactly know how,” said Fen’Asha. “But…I could learn?”

Sera stood. “To the kitchen,” she said with a point in no particular direction.

The kitchen was tidied up from the day’s services, but Fen’Asha and Sera made their way in on Important Inquisition Business and promised they’d take care of any probable mess. The cook shook his head and twirled his moustache in response, but Fen’Asha was able to usher him out on the promise that Maryden would allow him to sing along as she played her lute.

Sera found a cookbook and started flipping pages. “Chocolate chip, elfroot-snap cookies, apple nut, nut apple, snickerums, doodle-pits, dork-waddles, fart cookies….oh, let’s make fart cookies.”

“You’re making some of those up,” said Fen’Asha as she rummaged around for mixing bowls.

Sera shook her head and pointed to a page.

“Well, there you go,” said Fen’Asha, putting a big silver bowl on the counter.

Sera nodded.

“What about just a chocolate chip cookie?” said Fen’Asha.

“And?”

“And…we could add other things?”

“Great. No raisins,” said Sera.

Fen’Asha dumped flour into the bowl and began amassing other dry ingredients, while Sera worked through the cooler box for some eggs and milk. She came up with a half-full bottle of ale and swallowed the remnants, putting the empty back on the shelf before closing the door.

“So…Solas,” said Sera. “Something’s up.”

Fen’Asha shook her head. “We’re…it’s over.”

“Bugger’s nuts,” said Sera. “I knew it.”

Fen’Asha nodded.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why is it over?”

“He didn’t really say,” said Fen’Asha as she mixed the dry ingredients.

“He didn’t say?” asked Sera.

Fen’Asha shook her head.

“That’s not a reason,” said Sera.

“I’m aware…”

“He can’t,” said Sera. “Well, you’re not broken up then. It’s not officially over if there’s no reason, yeah?”

“So…I should rule that the relationship isn’t over by order of the Inquisition?” asked Fen’Asha, adding more sugar.

“Yes?” said Sera. “That’s a brilliant idea. Better than my plan.”

“Do I want to know your plan?”

“Eggs.”

Fen’Asha sighed.

“Seriously,” said Sera. “He’s supposed to be all smarty and he’s just dumb like the bee’s cock.”

Fen’Asha snorted.

“Too much time in the Fade wonking his plonker,” said Sera. “That’s what that is.”

Fen’Asha searched the cabinets and came up with a greenish-red powder. It was sweet to the taste and she added a few cups to her dry ingredients.

Sera began to work with the wet ingredients. “Wet…” she giggled.

Fen’Asha stirred in Sera’s ingredients and the dough came together as a greenish-brown mass. They shaped it into balls, adding a few splashes of this and that. Sera made the requisite ball joke and Fen’Asha laughed.

“You need to get yourself back on the horse,” said Sera. “Get over baldy and get yourself a real gobstopper.”

“I’m fine,” said Fen’Asha.

“You’re the Inquisitits,” said Sera.

“I am.”

“So _do_ something,” said Sera. “Do _someone_.”

“Why do you want to see me do someone?”

“I don’t want to watch, pervy,” said Sera. “But…but you need someone to fill your void. The void. Someone like…”

Fen’Asha winced.

“Cully-wully,” Sera announced. “He’s got lots of men under him. Needs a woman over him. Positions and all that.”

Fen’Asha shook her head and slid the cookies into the oven.

“He’s off his nut for you anyway,” said Sera. “It’s perfect.”

“No,” said Fen’Asha. “It’s not. I’ve got some stuff to work through…”

“We’ve all got stuff to work through,” said Sera. “That hasn’t stopped me from eating the peaches.”

Fen’Asha smirked.

“So it’s settled,” said Sera. “We’ll take these cookies to Cully-wully as a peace-and-tits offering.”

“I…”

“You’ll love it,” said Sera. “He’ll love it. I’ll love it.”

“I guess.”

Sera tapped her foot and looked around. “Is that thing even on?” she said, regarding the oven.

Fen’Asha opened the door. Cold as stones, the cookies sat inside looking at her expectantly. She turned a switch on the stovetop and closed the door. “Guess he’s going to have to wait,” she said with a shrug.


	36. Pt.2 - Fen: Wicked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All that's golden is never real. And I won't play fair with you this time. All that's golden is never so. And I'll be thankful when you let go. With teeth we've come this far. I'll take this thing by the throat and walk away.  
> \- “By the Throat” Chvrches

When the cookies were finally finished, Fen’Asha headed to locate Cully-wully to give him her offering of sorts. Maybe Sera had a point. Maybe it was time to move on.

Fen’Asha moved through the garden, the moon ever-watchful with a pale blue glow.

There was rustling in the bushes beside her and she turned just in time to see a familiar face up to his waist in the shrubbery.

“Inquisitor,” said Solas.

“Good evening,” she exhaled. “Would you care for a cookie?” she asked after a moment. She opened the box.

He selected one and turned it around in the moonlight. “ _Ma serannas_ ,” he said.

The finished product was a crisp and buttery confection with a touch of lime and a drop or two of honey. They were “Us Cookies,” Sera decided. The flash of lime represented the Anchor and the honey…

Solas was crunching away. “They are quite nice,” he said.

“ _Ma serannas_ ,” replied Fen’Asha.

Solas nodded and stood munching away on the cookie, taking small bites. He watched the Inquisitor.

After a few moments, she began to fidget. “What brings you out here?” she mustered.

“I am collecting herbs for a sleep aid of sorts,” he said. In between bites of cookie, he produced a small packet. “It is to be placed under a pillow and it produces the most relaxing dreams.”

“That sounds lovely,” said Fen’Asha.

“Please,” said Solas. “Take it.” He held out the sachet.

“ _Ma serannas_ ,” she said. She sniffed it, finding a sharp and soothing combination of aromas.

“Please be careful with that, Inquisitor,” said Solas. “It can be relatively potent.”

She smiled.

At that moment, a nearby door opened and Cullen strolled out. He was in the prayer chamber again, offering words to Andraste. He rubbed the back of his neck as he saw her.

“I was looking for you,” called the Inquisitor.

“Is something the matter?” asked Cullen.

“I have some cookies,” said Fen’Asha. “From…Sera…”

Solas coughed.

Cullen peered into the box. “Should I be concerned, Inquisitor?” he said, cocking an eyebrow. “She’s already responsible for the beehive in my training dummy.”

“We made them together,” said Fen’Asha.

Cullen bowed. “In that case,” he said as he accepted the box.

Solas swallowed the remnants of his cookie.

“It appears I am tarnishing a romantic moment, Inquisitor,” said Cullen. “Solas.” He turned to leave.

“No,” blurted Fen’Asha. “I wanted to thank you for last night…”

“I…” said Cullen.

“I was hoping we could…do it again,” she said.

Solas coughed again.

Cullen looked at Solas, who was looking back at him. He tilted his head. “Oh,” said Cullen. “The prayer.”

Fen’Asha nodded.

“Absolutely,” said Cullen.

Solas glanced at Fen’Asha and clapsed his hands behind his back.

“Perhaps…” began Cullen.

“Perhaps tomorrow?” said Fen’Asha.

“Tomorrow,” Cullen said. “Yes…tomorrow.”

Fen’Asha nodded and smiled. “Good,” she said. “Tomorrow it is.”

Cullen smiled.

Solas looked up.

“Well,” said Fen’Asha. “I have some…things to do. Sleep. I have to sleep. Busy day tomorrow.” She turned on her heel and walked briskly out of the garden.

“Goodnight, Inquisitor,” said Solas and Cullen in unison. 

* * *

 

Solas’ sachet had done the trick.

Fen’Asha drifted to sleep quickly, finding herself at rest for a change. She found herself comfortable and she wandered in her dreams, dipping her toes in the springs under Fen’Harel’s shrine. Her dreams kept the water warm and calm. She touched her stone, feeling it smooth under her fingertips.

The wolves watched her, the two of them framing the shrine. Solas’ concoction spread like mist and she took deep breaths, enjoying the way it played with her senses.

Her mind wandered.

It played on Solas, his words, his reasons, his lack of reasons.

She found now that she knew so little about him and yet felt so much. She didn’t know what his reasons were, what they could be. And that frightened her to some extent, pushed her beyond curiosity. Could he have a family? A wife outside the Inquisition somewhere? Was he immortal? Was he…real at all?

She shook her head and splashed at the water.

She felt silly. Some of her concerns were silly. And she had no time.

But the strength of her affections didn’t matter. Even if somehow, someway Solas still returned them. They could not overcome their distrust. Their secrets took precedence. That was it.

She waded through the waters of the spring, seeing their heat but feeling none of it. The steam rose under the moon, collecting in clouds and unclear images. The shrine sat, stone and quiet. She pulled herself toward it, wanted to get herself even closer, wanted to rest at the feet of The Dread Wolf.

She tucked herself near between the paws of one of the great wolves and watched the water roil as Solas’ scent continued to drift through the hazy night.

Fen’Harel.

She rolled his name over and over again in her mind and warmed.

* * *

 

The next morning, Fen’Asha found Cullen in the garden’s gazebo. He was playing chess with Dorian. She crossed her arms behind her back as she approached.

“Gloat all you like,” Cullen was saying. “I have this one.”

“That sounds like sass, Commander,” said Dorian. He winked. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Cullen shook his head and spied the Inquisitor standing near. He half-rose in greeting.

“Are you two boys playing nice?” asked Fen’Asha.

“ _I_ am always nice,” said Dorian. “Cullen just needs to accept the inevitability of my victory.”

“You must be joking,” said Cullen. He moved his piece and sat back. “I’m pretty sure I just won.”

Dorian studied the board and crossed his arms. “Don’t get smug,” he said. “Nobody likes a smug man.”

“As much as I would love the opportunity to defeat you again,” said Cullen. “I must be off.”

Dorian shrugged. “Fine,” he said. “Take your victory and flee, Commander.”

Cullen started to say something but shook his head instead. He gestured toward the prayer chamber, eager to keep his plans with the Inquisitor.

They knelt together before Andraste and he prayed aloud, like before. She closed her eyes, raised her own thoughts to the Maker. She felt peace, felt weightlessness. There was relief and comfort in prayer. There was wonder in seeking the mysteries beyond the tangible, in trusting the Maker. In trusting Fen’Harel. She held the prayer stone.

“Though I am flesh, Your Light is ever present,” Cullen was saying. “And those I have called, they remember. And they shall endure. I shall sing with them the Chant, and all will know. We are Yours, and none shall stand before us.”

Fen’Asha opened her eyes and saw the Commander’s eyes open as well. He was gazing up at Andraste.

“Thank you for joining me, Inquisitor,” he said. “I appreciate the distraction.”

“Thank you, Commander,” she replied.

“It is not often I am able to alleviate the burdens of the Inquisition,” Cullen continued.

“Your company is certainly rewarding in many ways,” said Fen’Asha. She felt strange.

“Surely you would prefer the company of Solas,” he said as he stood.

She nodded. “But we can be friends,” she said.

“Friends,” he said with a smile. He gave her his hand, helped her stand. His grip was strong, reassuring, dependable.

She looked at him, saw his handsomeness at last in the candlelight and in the small stream of sun through the chamber window. He was rugged, blonde like her, tall.

His hazel eyes looking back to Andraste.

“Solas and I….” she revealed. “We are no more. And my clan…” She looked down and noticed they were still holding hands, his fingers laced through hers. The encouragement, the constancy. The warmth.

Cullen smiled softly, sweetly.

“The prayers help,” continued Fen’Asha. “Being…with you helps.”

The door to the prayer chamber creaked open and an enormous head peered in. It was Varric.

“There you are,” said the dwarf. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”

Cullen and Fen’Asha exchanged looks, released their hands.

“We almost had to start without you,” said Varric. He looked past the pair at the figure of Andraste and smiled.

“Start…what?” asked Fen’Asha.

“Come on,” said Varric.

They shrugged and followed him through the maze of Skyhold until they reached the tavern.

“I found them,” said Varric.

Many of the companions were gathered around a table, with mugs and plates stacked high. Playing cards were scattered around and a crude pile of money sat at one end of the table.

Fen’Asha noted a certain elf’s absence. With a sigh she pushed aside the senseless wave of disappointment. She took a seat across from the Commander as Josephine dealt the cards.

“Sometimes the most spiritual of experiences is found in the most improbable of places,” said Varric with a grin.

They toasted and drank.

“I do hope I recall the rules,” said Josephine. “It has been ages since I’ve played Wicked Grace.” She dealt the cards with impressive speed and cut them again with a flourish.

Cassandra looked at her dubiously.

“We playing or what?” roared Iron Bull.

Cassandra stared at her cards and scratched her head.

Josephine studied hers as well and threw a pile of coins into the middle of the table. “I believe I’ll start with three coppers,” she said. “Is that too bold?”

“Silver or go home,” said Iron Bull. He added his own coins to the pot.

Cassandra studied her cards again and looked at her money. She turned to Fen’Asha. “Are three drakes better than a pair of swords?” she murmured.

Varric put his palm to his forehead. “Seeker, remember what I said about showing everyone your hand?” he said. “That goes for telling everyone your hand, too.”

Cassandra stiffened but nudged Fen’Asha. She wanted answers.

The Inquisitor shrugged.

Cole turned his cards around and around. “There’s a crown on his head and a sword too,” he said. “His head didn’t want either.”

“Don’t talk to the face cards, kid,” said Varric.

The companions built up the pot, throwing more coins into it until a solid pile was built in the middle of the table.

“You haven’t even looked at your cards, Inquisitor,” said Cullen when he saw Fen’Asha dump in a small fortune of silver.

“Ante up,” she said with a smirk.

The cards moved quickly and the ale was generous, with conversation flowing from Wicked Grace to some seriously peculiar stories. Varric was holding court, engaging the Inquisition with his half-invented tales of life in Kirkwall and beyond.

“I have figured out your tells,” said Cullen after Josephine raked in another hand. “Deal again.”

“Everyone knows a lady has no tells,” said Josephine, fluttering her eyelashes.

“Let us test your good fortune, then,” Cullen grinned.

“Deal me in,” said Fen’Asha. “I need to win my dignity back.”

“Me too,” slurred Sera as she wobbled in her chair.

Cullen remained focused on his cards. He tossed more money into the pot, even after Fen’Asha and the others folded. He stared down Josephine, who pursed her lips and added even more money. Sera drank and eagerly added even more money.

“You are out of money, Commander,” said Josephine after Cullen had hit the bottom of his reserves.

“I am certain of my cards, Ambassador,” he said. “Perhaps I could offer some form of collateral.”

Josephine placed a finger to her lips.

“Your clothes,” blurted Sera.

Fen’Asha kicked her under the table.

“Put up your clothes,” said Sera.

“This isn’t…” said Josephine, blushing.

“Fine,” said Cullen. “I wager my…clothing.”

“Oh goodness,” tittered Josephine. “In that case…” She pushed her entire stack of money into the middle of the table and sat back.

Cullen sighed and rose, as the Inquisition cheered and laughed uproariously. He sat back down after he’d completed the fullness of his wager, with only his smallclothes remaining.

“Not enough,” said Sera as she pushed her money in.

“Not enough?” Cullen said, exasperated.

Josephine shook her head and obscured a giggle.

“Fine,” said Cullen. He slipped his smallclothes off and added them to the pile of apparel and money in the middle of the table.

Iron Bull was craning to see what Cullen had hidden below the table’s edge.

“What do you have?” said Josephine, sitting back.

Sera turned over her cards and hiccupped. Her hand was…incoherent, to say the least. Josephine turned over her cards and smiled, while Cullen revealed his slowly and knew he’d been bested. He frowned.

“Never wager against an Antivan, Commander,” said Josephine.

Fen’Asha shook her head, trying to remove the enormous grin.

“I shall take my leave,” said Cassandra. “I have no need to witness our Commander’s…display.”

“Bullshit,” coughed Dorian.

The game was over, all the same, and Josephine carefully collected her winnings while brushing Cullen’s clothes off to the side. He looked at her, begging for at least a cloth with which to conceal his manhood on the way back to his precious tower. She shook her head, reminding him again of the risks of Wicked Grace, and took her leave.

The others, too, departed in turn until only Sera, Fen’Asha and Cullen remained.

“Don’t you two have something to…do?” asked the Commander.

“No,” slurred Sera. “We’re staying for the show.”

Fen’Asha laughed and slid a plate over to Cullen, smiling sympathetically.

Cullen rose, using the plate as an accommodating shield, and wobbled his way out of the tavern. Maryden began to play a song in honour of the Commander’s rump, while Fen’Asha couldn’t help but steal a glance. His form was tall, muscular – more muscular than Solas, more tanned, more…

“Shake it,” shouted Sera as Cullen reached the doorway.

That was enough for him and he took off at a full sprint, presumably distressing the elderly and small children of the Inquisition as he scurried his way to safety and dignity in the tower.

“Come on,” said Sera. She hauled Fen’Asha out of her chair and up the steps to her room in the corner. “Can’t believe I didn’t win,” she mumbled.

“You were on quite a streak there…” said Fen’Asha.

“Speaking of streaks,” said Sera. “What about Cully-wully’s…wully?”

“The…plate was in the way,” said Fen’Asha, somewhat regretting her assistance.

“We need a plan,” said Sera as she plunged through her room.

“A…plan?”

“Cullen’s going to be all plumy,” said Sera. “You have to take advantage…”

“I...”

“Take him…” Sera was saying as she twirled around, examining her chaos. “This.” She produced another small pink box.

Fen’Asha tilted it open and it was full of more cookies. They were shaped like eyes, with enormous pupils and lots of light pink icing. There was also a small red tongue in the corner, licking the…

“Tit cookies,” said Sera.

“Tit cookies,” repeated Fen’Asha. “You’re serious.”

Sera nodded and began to dance back and forth. “Maker, I have to pay the water bill,” she said.

Fen’Asha was still staring at the tit cookies.

“Good luck,” said Sera with a wave as she surged from her room.

Alone in Sera’s room with tit cookies and clear instructions to take advantage of Cullen’s proverbial exposure, Fen’Asha could think of only one thing to do.

“Commander,” she said as she rushed through Cullen’s door with a bit too much vigour.

He was already clothed and sitting behind his desk with his feet up. He rubbed the back of his head when he saw her moving across his floor with another box in her hands.

“I have more…cookies,” said Fen’Asha. She held up the box.

“Inquisitor,” said Cullen with a nod. “I am still working on the last ones…” He motioned to his desk and indeed the pink box from the previous confection-related outing sat on the corner.

“Well,” Fen’Asha said. “Sera insisted you have more. Can’t be too sweet, after all.”

“I see…”

Fen’Asha opened the other box of cookies and added her tit cookies, closing the lid hurriedly before Cullen could see what awaited inside. She ditched the new box and stood with her hands behind her back.

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” said Cullen.

“Thank _you_ , Commander,” said Fen’Asha with a giggle. “It’s been a long time since I was so thoroughly entertained.”

“I…yes, well,” said Cullen. “I was certain. I thought…”

“There were benefits to watching you lose,” said Fen’Asha, the room wavered.

“Maker’s breath.”

Fen’Asha ran her fingers along the edge of the desk and steadied herself. What was she doing? Tit cookies? Seriously? It was one thing for Sera to be out of her mind, but Fen’Asha had a job to do. She was the Inquisitor.

“Next time, I’ll try to be more careful,” said Cullen, standing up.

“That would be a shame,” said Fen’Asha as he drew closer.

“I have been appreciating your company,” said Cullen as he walked around his desk.

“I have…”

Suddenly, the door burst open and Leliana stood before them. “Inquisitor,” she said. “It’s Corypheus. He’s been spotted.”

Cullen and Fen’Asha followed Leliana to the war table, finding Josephine pacing back and forth. She was making eager notes, then scratching them out and making new notes. She tore pieces of paper away and sighed heavily when she saw the others.

“I do wish we were still playing Wicked Grace,” she said.

Fen’Asha examined the map on the war table as Leliana pointed to the location where Corypheus was said to be. Her scouts spotted him on the road to the southwest and there was no time to head him off at the pass.

“Our best bet is to prepare Skyhold,” said Cullen. “We can withstand Corypheus.”

“He moves in smaller numbers,” said Leliana, reading her report.

“How much time do we have?” Fen’Asha asked. “He materialized out of nowhere.”

“A day, maybe two,” said Leliana.

“We have food storage and water,” said Josephine. “We can protect as many people as possible from the walls.”

“Make sure the servants are safe,” said Fen’Asha.

“Yes, Inquisitor,” answered Josephine.

“What about the dragon?” said Fen’Asha.

“Leave that to me,” came a voice as Morrigan strode in. “I have been preparing for this.”

“The dragon does move with the remainder of his forces, Inquisitor,” said Leliana. “There is nothing to indicate an advanced assault.”

“Strange…” said Fen’Asha.

“He is moving slowly,” said Leliana. “But with purpose.”

“His lack of haste suggests he has another plan,” said Cullen. “Or he is desperate.”

“I agree,” said Leliana. “But we must prepare for any eventuality.”

“We have thwarted him at every turn,” said Fen’Asha. “He is grasping for anything.”

“It is unlikely that he marches here to hand us a victory, Inquisitor,” said Morrigan.

Fen’Asha nodded. She knew the witch was right. She knew fear was settling in, uncertainty too. She studied the map, studied the places she’d been. She remembered the battles, the losses and the victories. She remembered the Hinterlands, the Emerald Graves, Crestwood…

Solas.

“Inquisitor,” said Cullen.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“We will be triumphant,” asserted the Commander.

She nodded. “Are the soldiers ready?”

“Always,” said Cullen with a grin. “We will have several units advancing to meet him on the road. You may command from the ramparts. I will lead a squad from below.”

“And I have scouts circling from the rear,” said Leliana. “We may be able to make use of the element of surprise, at least for a time.”

“Excellent,” said Fen’Asha.

“Prepare your companions, Inquisitor,” said Leliana. “And prepare yourself.”

 


	37. Pt.2 - Fen: Sacred

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby, I've been here before, seen this room, I've walked this floor. I used to live alone before I knew you. And I saw your flag on the marble arch. Our love is not a victory march. It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah.  
> \- “Hallelujah” Leonard Cohen

Fen’Asha spent the day tending to her companions, ensuring they had what they needed and taking on any concerns. The mood was weighty, but most of her friends were in surprisingly good spirits. The arrival of conflict with Corypheus was, after all, the predominant goal of the Inquisition. Everyone had to know it was coming.

Still, being greeted with the actual onset of the moment was another matter and Fen’Asha found herself pulled in a million places at once.

When she finally had time to settle, she spoke with Leliana again and determined that Corypheus’ forces were still at least a half day away. They would be safe for another night. She had the advisers inform the Inquisition.

Mother Giselle advised in a leading of the Chant of Light.

They settled outside, the soft glow of torches and candles lighting the many faces Fen’Asha had come to know over the past while. Many were lined with age, with the passage of hard times. Many were young, fresh-faced and only acquainted with warfare. She could see their hopes and fears in their eyes.

The voices rose as the Chant of Light was offered.

 _The one who repents, who has faith_  
_Unshaken by the darkness of the world_  
_She shall know true peace_

The devoted were an inspiration. They sought what they required in moments of fear, in moments of discord. They drew to the Maker, cleaved to their beliefs. She clutched the prayer stone. She felt warm, felt the fear settle in.

She yearned.

_Many are those who wander in sin_

Her eyes rose and she saw him, standing on the fringes with his bald head absorbing the glow from the lights. He watched the crowd in wonder, hands fixed behind his back. He seemed almost reverential, but then he caught her eye. They watched each other, but he broke the gaze and turned back to walk the ramparts.

_Despairing that they are lost forever_

Her pulse raced as she made her way up the steps toward him, faltering as she walked past the faithful. What was she doing? What was she seeking?

She reached him, called his name.

He turned to face her.

“I need to talk to you,” she said.

He looked at her, but he didn’t speak.

“Corypheus comes but…” she said. “But all I could think about was you…I have so many things I must say.”

He turned his face away.

“Solas…” she bit her lip. “You are everything to me. I know you think what we had was a mistake, but it wasn’t a mistake for me. I am privileged to know you. I was happy. You were home. And I love you. If it would take the rest of my life…”

_For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water_

She moved toward him quickly and cupped his face with trembling hands, drawing his lips to hers. Her eyes moistened with the kiss, but she held it. She trembled for her urgency, for her need, for her hunger.

_As the moth sees light and goes toward flame_

He shifted and she prepared for a reprimand, for an explanation, for a rejection. But he pulled her closer, his hands snaking around her back. He kissed her deeper.

_She should see fire and go towards Light_

The Chant faded and she swore she heard his heart beating. He was so fiery inside. There was so much heat to his touch, so much energy.

But he pulled away, hands dropping to her waist. “Forgive me,” he said.

“Solas,” she said. “I am not a child. There’s something…keeping us apart. But surely…surely we would be forgiven for one night… just one night.” She gripped his arms, pulled him closer.

And he didn’t resist, circling his arms around her. They kissed again and she pressed herself close, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Take me to your room,” she whispered.

Solas exhaled and clasped her hand, leading her across the ramparts. The Chant resounded, reverberating through the stone of Skyhold.

_O Maker, hear my cry_

He led her to his quarters, a tiny room near the servant residences. It held a small bed and a shelf on which he’d rested several books.

_Guide me through the blackest nights_

He lit the candle on the table, providing a soft glow of light for his room.

_Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked_

She pulled him back, they kissed again, falling to the small bed.

_Make me to rest in the warmest places_

He knelt before her, hands moving quickly, he unfastened her top.

_O Creator, see me kneel_

She shrugged out of her unwanted garment and he released her from her smallclothes, exposing her lush breasts to his penetrating gaze.

_For I walk only where You would bid me_

He nuzzled in her bosom, placing warm kisses and tracing the curves with his tongue. His mouth lapped at her, nipped at her flesh.

_Stand only in places You have blessed_

She pulled him up and found his lips again, reaching for him and caressing his form as he lay on top of her. She felt his warmth, his excitement.

_Sing only the words You place in my throat_

His name escaped her lips as she writhed under him, hands wandering, lips tracing and caressing the smallest of tender places.

_My Maker, know my heart_

Their necklaces clinked, black jawbone to black stone. She pressed against him, sensing his hardness. She looked into his eyes, sensing his fire.

_Take from me a life of sorrow_

His hands reached and groped for her, tugging at her trousers and unhooking them with firm movements.

_Lift me from a world of pain_

She raised her hips to assist him, letting him slip her trousers away and tug the undergarment from its place. She followed his eyes, glimmering in the candlelight.

_Judge me worthy of Your endless pride_

He was taking her in, letting his eyes navigate her curves and her skin.

_My Creator, judge me whole_

His hands followed the flicker of his eyes, wandered her curves and found her below. She was moist to his touch, breathless to the stroke of his palm as he outlined her opening.

_Find me well within Your grace_

She gasped as his fingers entered her, pushing inside with determination and warmth. She wriggled against his hand, grinding on it as he pushed deeper.

_Touch me with fire that I be cleansed_

He pulled his hand away and worked his own trousers open, producing his erection. He applied her moisture to his bulging tip, slicking his member. He watched her lick her lips and smile up at him. He pulled her into place.

_Tell me I have sung to Your approval_

She cried out as he crossed her threshold. She was full in his glory, singing to the heavens with every thrust.

_O Maker, hear my cry_

She squirmed as he coordinated her movements with substantial, bursting prods. He lunged, watching her as she clutched at his necklace and pulled at his hips. Her eagerness broke her to pinnacle, to a flood of dampness and constriction.

_Seat me by Your side in death_

Her climax made him apply more pressure, made him work up more speed. He descended on her, pressed deeper in, grinding against her hard.

_Make me one within Your glory_

She closed her eyes, gritting her teeth. She tried to commit the flood of sensations to memory. Tried to smell him, taste him. Tried to press into his skin, entwining herself with him at every angle and opportunity. She creased herself against him, pushing her breasts into his chest, padlocking her legs around his waist, kneading her humidity against his firmness.

_And let the world once more see Your favour_

He breathed her name, she was his heart. Gripped her hands, palm to palm, fingers entwined. Groaned as he released his essence with a thick stream of milky exultation.

_For You are the fire at the heart of the world_

They shuddered, clutching each other and holding on. They puffed, intensity saturating them in droplets of perspiration and fatigue. Their shadows entwined, flickering as the candle burned down to the wick.  She returned his words of love. He returned her caresses.

_And comfort is only Yours to give._

The flame expired, plunged the room to darkness.

 

Fen’Asha awoke submerged in a mass of limbs, feeling Solas’ hands on her body. She smiled, feeling the quiet air around her in his cool room. It hadn’t been a dream. It wasn’t some cruel trick of the fates.

He was watching her, outlining her frame with his fingertips.

She cherished him in that moment and tried not to let him know she was stirring. She tried not to open her eyes, to stare at him as he lay tousled with her after the night’s muggy calisthenics. She tried to slow her breathing, to narrow her mouth without lending it to search for another kiss.

She enjoyed him, the moon still watching from above, its shards catching through his tiny window.

“You are awake,” he said after a moment.

She sighed, rubbed her eyes, shifted to face him.

She opened her mouth, wanted to say so many things, wanted to break down the walls that separated them from eternity together. She wanted to know him inside and out, wanted to treasure his soul and his memories.

“Did you sleep well, _Vhenan_?” he asked.

She nodded. “ _Vhenas_ …” she began, tentative, stretching her words.

He gazed at her in the night’s remaining glow.

“There is something I need to tell you,” she said. “If we…if we survive…”

He stroked her hair, running fingers through pale tresses. “And I you,” he said. “If we are alive afterward, everything will be made clear.”

She smiled, closed her eyes to the world, committed him to memory again.

He leaned over her, stroked her forehead, fondly passed his fingers over her eyelids and down her cheek. He held her, kissed her.

“No matter what comes,” he whispered. “I want you to know that what we have is real.”

She opened her eyes, shimmering with acknowledgement. She nodded.

“For now,” she breathed. “For now, while it’s the moon and not the sun…” She pulled him closer, pulled him within.

And the light receded once more, catching behind a cloud as the storm lumbered near.

  



	38. Pt.2 - Fen: Foci

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tethered to a bird of sorrow. A voice that's buried in the hollow. You've given over to self-deceiving. You're prostrate bowed, but not believing. You've squandered more than you could borrow. You bet your joys on all tomorrows for the hope of some returning, while everything around you is burning. But I'm not leaving you… yet.  
> \- “Bird of Sorrow” Glen Hansard

The dragon screeched and sailed back against the horizon, hanging for a moment over Corypheus’ forces below. They crowded the mountain pass, a bulk if indiscriminate dark figures in the snow. They waited before the bridge leading to Skyhold.

Fen’Asha watched from the ramparts, shook her head. It made no sense.

“They are stalling,” said Morrigan.

A crow soared across the field and landed on Leliana’s arm, delivering a note. She unfurled it. “We are trapped and Corypheus is not among these forces.”

“Then…” wondered Fen’Asha.

“This is a distraction,” said Leliana.

“We must prepare the trebuchets,” said Cullen.

“And if we bury the mountain pass along with them?” countered Leliana.

An answer burst from the sky to the south, as the Breach ripped wide open. The heavens swirled chaotically and Fen’Asha’s Anchor responded, enveloping her hand in a sickly green glow. She trembled, gripping her wrist and dropping to her knees. “Corypheus,” she growled.

The trees rustled on the cliffs nearby and snow was caught adrift, with a rush of wind roaring down upon them. The air dashed past in a scream, in a blast of anger and despair as though spirits were being wrenched from the Fade itself. Shadowy figures plunged from the heavens, accompanying the screams on the way down.

“Demons,” Solas said.

“Why would he do this?” Leliana asked.

“Either I close the breach again, or it swallows the world,” Fen’Asha scowled.

“Suicidal piece of shit,” Sera spat.

“Inquisitor, we can send the forces…” Cullen said.

“Only the mages could…” Fen’Asha began.

“They are preparing their trebuchets. Get back,” shouted Cullen pulling the Inquisitor behind him.

Cullen’s order ran through the lines but it was too late. In a barrage of shattered stone and smoke, the weaponry of Corypheus’ army was apparent. They’d besieged the bridge, torn apart the only way in or out of Skyhold with several short flares from the beyond.

Cullen hollered for the troops to pull back from the crumbling bridge and back through the great doors of Skyhold. “They’re sealing us in,” he shouted.

“Shit,” snarled Fen’Asha. She looked down to the bridge. Flames simmered below as stone still plummeted into the desolation of fire and ruination, rising smoke curling into the air, remnants of so many journeys cast into nothing. As the world would soon be cast into nothing.

The Breach roiled overhead, a mess of clouds, magic and thunder swirling into chaos and disaster and…

“I can take you,” Morrigan shouted over the din.

Fen’Asha looked to the witch.

“As a dragon,” she said. “But I can only take two.”

Fen’Asha nodded. Hope. She scanned the faces of the Inquisition.

“You know the orb,” she said to Solas.

Solas nodded.

Morrigan climbed into the crevice between the battlements and jumped in a thick cloud of purple smoke that gave way to a great violet dragon. She hovered near the ramparts, screeching like an angry bird. She plucked the two elves from the rock wall and took to the sky.

The dragon raised and soared, plunging down into the valley near the ruined bridge and the awaiting Venatori before arcing upward. Fen’Asha clung to her talons, the wind whooshing through her hair. The Breach loomed closer and closer with every moment, the land below whisking by in a blur of white and blue.

Before they knew it, the dilapidated remains of the Temple of Sacred Ashes was in view and the massive Breach whirled above. Fen’Asha felt its power in her bones as she dropped from Morrigan’s grip. Solas landed beside her and the dragon soared off with a screech, swerving toward Corypheus’ dragon with surprising elegance.

The shards of red lyrium emanated heat. They stepped around the Blighted lyrium, following the path through the hollow setting until the ground shook underfoot.

Corypheus floated into view, the orb suspended before him. Crackles of energy ripped from the foci to the swirling Breach and the magister sneered upon spotting the Inquisitor.

“You’re insane,” shouted Fen’Asha.

Corypheus turned his head skyward, looking into the Breach as it continued churning hazardously. “You have been most successful at spoiling my fun,” he said. “But you are nothing. Nothing but a thief, a nonentity in the wrong place at the wrong time. We shall prove which of us is worthy of godhood.”

“I have nothing to prove,” spat Fen’Asha, turning her staff in her hand. “You steal magic from ancient gods. You are nothing but a pretender.”

“You dare,” he snarled, looming toward them.

She stared at him, seeing fear in his eyes. Seeing mortality. He was, on some level, just another being.

Solas shifted behind her as distant cries gave rise to the appearance of the two dragons, fighting entwined toward the Breach and swirling downward before they got too close.

“There is nothing left,” said Fen’Asha. “Give up.”

Corypheus glowered and something snapped, with a great flash of emerald lightning producing a collection of demons from the Breach above.

The two elves backed up and readied their weapons, engaging the rushing demons in flashes of fire and ice. They dealt with the threat quickly, with Fen’Asha never taking her eye off Corypheus. He turned and floated further away, desperate and troubled.

“The orb,” said Solas. “Get the orb.”

Fen’Asha nodded and raced around the shrinking cluster of demons, catching Corypheus as he raised the orb again to call forth more assistance from the Fade. She primed her Anchor and bellowed as she powered it forward, exacting all her strength on the orb. She pulled at it with her magic, but Corypheus’ grip was still strong.

“If you desire death, you shall have it,” he shouted as he turned around to face her. He stared down at her, teeth grinding, and he swung with a vicious fist.

She sidestepped his movement and kept her focus on the Anchor, on his orb. She tugged at him again and his arm jerked forward, the foci loosening in his grip.

Corypheus spun around and swung wildly, another claw-like fist plunging toward the Inquisitor. And again she moved aside without losing focus on her task.

Solas was at her side, the demons dispatched, and they faced down Corypheus. They spread out, Solas creeping around the side and Fen’Asha maintaining her concentration.

“In my time, we called your people _rattus_ ,” said Corypheus. “Cowards.”

Solas circled and fired, producing a shard of ice that noisily hit the Blighted monster in the head.

Corypheus’ arm buckled again, his grip loosening around the orb.

Fen’Asha watched it eagerly, but her power was draining her and she sank to one knee. “Again,” she shouted at Solas.

He responded with another blast of ice and Corypheus toppled, the orb slinking down his fingertips. “No,” he groaned. He flashed his arms and bolts of red and green energy erupted from the ground below, tearing up enormous claws of stone and ruin. He spun the debris around, forming a giant staircase that careened up into the haze and toward the imminent Breach. With a sweep of his arm, Corypheus floated up the stairs and pulled more rock and debris with him.

Fen’Asha broke her focus with the Anchor and sprinted after him, with Solas close behind.

Corypheus took the stairs, turning suddenly and swinging at Fen’Asha. This time, he caught her with his immense claw and his fingers dug beyond her armour.

She shouted, clenching her teeth as she doubled over.

The move bought Corypheus time and he was off again, with Solas catching up to Fen’Asha. He reached for the wound when he saw it, his fingers soaking in her blood. “We must heal this quickly,” he said.

She shook her head, winced as she stood. “Come on,” she said as she chased off after Corypheus again.

Just then, the two dragons entered the sky and snarled as they tangled. The purple dragon was slashing wildly with wings and claws and Corypheus’ beast looked on the run, with Morrigan’s mouth of fire eventually catching it in the eye. It snarled as it sailed toward the ground again, the purple dragon hovering above.

Fen’Asha continued her run, with Solas following her up another set of stairs toward the top of Corypheus’ construction.

The purple dragon hovered overhead, watching below and waiting. Out of nowhere, Corypheus’ dragon plunged up toward Morrigan’s midsection and gnashed with snapping jaws. The purple dragon shrieked, contorting and twisting on its way toward Corypheus’ structure before clanking off the side of the stone and plummeting to the ground below.

The red lyrium dragon circled once and dove for Fen’Asha and Solas, who clung to the side of the stairs to avoid the jaws.

They heard Corypheus’ shouting above and continued the climb, wondering how far the structure rose.

Solas clutched Fen’Asha close as the dragon took another vicious pass, holding her around the waist as she nearly fell from the stairs. They looked below and saw nothing but shadow and smog, with the remains of the Temple twisted to serve Corypheus’ desires.

“Quickly,” shouted Fen’Asha as she pulled Solas behind her and bolted up the next several stairs. She clutched her abdomen, trying to block out the pain from Corypheus’ claw.

The dragon continued to loop, spinning toward them and discharging a flash of red fire. The flames ripped into the stairs below, barely missing Fen’Asha and Solas. She towed him higher still and kept an eye on the beast as it twirled around again.

When the red lyrium dragon charged next, she was ready. She pushed Solas up four steps and aimed her staff, waiting for the beast to jerk its hideous jaws open. When it did, she lurched forward with her staff and crammed the bladed pole down the dragon’s gullet.

Corypheus’ dragon made hideous noises as it gagged on the staff, with the knife-edge cutting the inside of its rough mouth. Fen’Asha handled the staff from her place on the stairs, sending her magic, molten heat, cleaving it upward through the top of the dragon’s cranium with a tugging gesture and carving the beast’s head wide open.

It noiselessly fell to the ground with the staff and its blade wedged inside, landing with an unremarkable thud below.

“Well,” said Solas as he pulled Fen’Asha up to his level.

“Well,” said Fen’Asha, brushing herself off. She shuddered when her fingers trickled over her wound.

Solas watched her and tore off a piece of his clothing, plunging it against the wound. It reddened instantly and he exhaled at the sight.

“Come on,” she snarled. “We finish this.”

Solas shook his head but followed the Inquisitor.

The pair took the next several stairs and finally reached the top, a stone platform marked with several eruptions of ruin and debris.

Corypheus stood, the orb aloft.

“He seeks destruction,” said Solas.

Fen’Asha broke into a run toward Corypheus and he spun around to face her as she drew near, scowling and screaming like a child having a tantrum.

Solas sprang into action behind her, firing off rounds of ice that peppered against Corypheus’ shoulder. He brushed the shards of ice away harmlessly and sneered before stomping – hard. The ground buckled below and large holes tore through the stone flooring.

Fen’Asha leapt to avoid a chasm at her feet and rolled to safety right under a crumbling tower of stone.

“He’s bringing it down,” shouted Solas as he ducked and dodged clumps of rock. He was whirling his staff, firing ice at the now-silent magister and hoping to draw his attention.

She took his meaning and leapt across another gulf, preparing her hand and the Anchor again. The electricity sizzled as she blasted away, melding her magic with the orb and yanking it away.

“No,” blurted Corypheus and the orb slipped from his grasp, tumbling through the air toward the Inquisitor.

“Close the Breach,” shouted Solas as he narrowed a beam of white ice at Corypheus’ shaking skull.

She spun around, finding the Breach still above them in the clouds and darkness, and held the orb together with her Anchor. The power surged in a sea of memories. She saw her clan, she saw Haven, she saw bodies – so many bodies. She shouted as her hand exploded with the orb, driving toward the Breach in a stream of unthinkable power.

Corypheus wailed pathetically as the Breach shimmered and quaked before his very eyes. He fought off Solas’ ice and energy, struggling forward like his legs were broken.

But he was too late.

Fen’Asha snapped the Breach with a final push of energy, watching her memories once again fade and feeling all breath escape from her lungs. She burned as she fell to her knees, the sky pure once more and the night surprisingly cool.

Corypheus was bellowing, whimpering, stumbling. He was pathetic.

Solas stood near, his staff raised over the weakened foe.

Fen’Asha watched Solas, saw his eyes, saw his…pity? She staggered to her feet, forcing air into her tattered lungs, and she lumbered toward Corypheus. The orb glowed cool in her hand, crackling with gentle energy along with her reverberating Anchor.

“I…will…” snarled Corypheus as he crawled toward Fen’Asha with Solas at his back. “Kill…”

Fen’Asha smiled. She smiled at Solas behind Corypheus, smiled as he held his staff curiously. She smiled as she thought of the wolves, of the Inquisition, of the forests in the distance now at peace from the Breach and from this monster. She smiled, saw her Father, saw her Mother. Saw Fen’Harel.

His was power in her hands, so much power. She stood tall now, watching Corypheus reach her with pathetic swinging claws. Watching Solas track behind, waiting for her to act. Watching her with careful eyes.

“You wanted into the Fade?” Fen’Asha said. She produced a sliver of a Rift, guided it toward Corypheus. She clutched her wound as she watched it move.

He watched dully, not saying a word. Arrogance gone, forgotten.

She buried the Rift inside his head, inside his mind and twisted her hand. The Anchor rippled and the Rift snapped open, absorbing the magister in a barrage of shocks and twitches and bolts.

She smiled, dropping once more to her knees. She barely heard the Rift bubbling or Corypheus yelling. She barely heard Solas shouting a warning.

And she dodged to late, felt Corypheus’ last clutch, a fierce claw to her back. It scratched, gashed her flesh from bone, ripped at her senses. She screamed and rotated, catching the magister’s concluding bolt of energy as it scorched past her and ripped through a mast of stone above her.

She smashed the Rift shut with a curse. The ground surged below, echoing and heaving into yawning chasms.

Solas ran toward her, but not before a crevasse hurled open under her and she began to fall. He grabbed hold of her arm, pulling her from the void.

“The orb,” she shouted, grappling for better hold of the foci, her grip slick with blood.

The structure shuddered, the magic sustaining its impossible flight ceased.

Fen’Harel’s foci faltered from her grasp in the impact, wavering toward the imperceptible earth below.

“Hold on,” he cried.

“No,” she cried as she felt it slide, watched the orb drop from her fingers.

Solas pulled her up.

The world gave way, a mass of stone and ruin plunging. Fen’Asha tried hold tight to Solas, but night settling in, she closed her eyes. She didn’t feel it when she hit the ground.

 

“Inquisitor,” came a voice through the gloom.

She gritted her teeth, tried to twist her eyes open.

“Inquisitor,” came the voice again.

She peered out, the pain staggering and wrenching her body in a thousand different directions at once. Her bones ached and she struggled to draw breath, finding her lungs full of fire. Her wounds became apparent all at once, flashing shards of pain through her entire form. She felt like she’d been gutted, like her organs were going to spill from inside. She attempted to open her mouth, to call out, but nothing came.

“Inquisitor, you’re safe,” came the voice.

Her eyes focused the blurred colours and she saw Cassandra standing over her, with Cullen at her side.

“Where…” she attempted.

“You’re safe,” said Cullen. “Morrigan returned you to Skyhold.”

“Please,” said Cassandra. “Try not to move.”

Fen’Asha winced. That wouldn’t be a problem. She could feel sensations tearing through her like countless tiny blades, but there was pressure too. She felt squeezed, like stones and ruins were still on top of her. Like she was still pinned to the earth below, like she’d plummeted to her death.

Was she dead?

And the Anchor. She couldn’t raise her arm, but she sensed it still. She sensed its rippling, its acidic touch on her skin. She saw its colour out of the corner of her eye, a glimmer of green. A reminder.

“The orb…” she murmured.

“Please,” said Cullen, placing a hand on her forehead. “Rest.”

A dwarf was near, drawing over her with a vial of something. He poured it into her mouth and she tasted its bitterness. She lacked the energy to resist and her eyes closed as she drifted away once more.

 

When she awoke again, the world was brighter. She was in her quarters and the sun streamed in through her windows.

She saw Cullen and Cassandra at her bedside and smiled. She felt warm and comfortable in her own bed. She pulled at the soft quilt around her and rested her head back on her pillow.

“You’re awake,” said Cullen.

“How long was I…” said Fen’Asha, glad to have her voice and consciousness returned to some semblance of normalcy.

“Two days or so,” said Cullen. He exchanged looks with Cassandra, who walked to the Inquisitor’s bedside.

“The orb…what happened to the orb?” said Fen’Asha.

Cassandra shook her head. “Our scouts found it shattered,” she said. “Gone.”

“And Solas?” sighed Fen’Asha. She was unprepared for the current of emotion that escorted his name and pressed her hands over her dampening eyes.

“He is gone, Inquisitor,” said Cullen. “I am sorry.”

“Morrigan found you alone. Leliana’s spies search for him, but...” said Cassandra.

“The Inquisition awaits you,” said Cullen, trying to push a smile across his face.

“The Inquisition will have to wait,” said Fen’Asha, her throat sweltering. “Please. I must rest.”

Cassandra looked at Cullen and nodded hesitantly.

“You have defeated Corypheus,” said Cullen. “Please do bear that in mind.”

Cassandra took her leave, with Cullen following.

Fen’Asha looked around her room and pulled the sheets tighter still. She wanted to dissolve. She should be overjoyed, ecstatic that Corypheus was gone. She’d sealed the Breach, saved innumerable lives, saved Thedas from certain ruin at the hands of a suicidal monster.

But Fen’Harel… His orb was shattered. Solas was gone. And her heart ached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So concludes Wolf and we leave Fen’Asha tattered and torn just how I like her. (Something's wrong with me.)  
> But all is not lost. Perhaps our hero will finally make his appearance and we can turn heat up on this slow, slow burn.  
> Thanks again for all the kudos, bookmarks and comments. I appreciate every single little one. So frilly little cakes for all!  
> ( ˘▽˘)っ~[ː̠̈ː̠̈ː̠̈] ●○◎ [ː̠̈ː̠̈ː̠̈] Ω  
> And when you're done with that, pick up your swords, hammers, torches, pitchforks, and shovels…? It’s time we start a Rebellion!  
> (ง •̀_•́)ง


	39. Pt.3 - Harillen: Endure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got no future. I know my days are few. The present’s not that pleasant, just a lot of things to do. I thought the past would last me but the darkness got that too. I should have seen it coming. It was right behind your eyes. You were young and it was summer. I just had to take a dive. Winning you was easy but darkness was the prize.  
> \- “The Darkness” Leonard Cohen

She kicked up wisps of dirt as she struggled through black earth.

She climbed her way back through the Deep Roads and toward the surface. To say it was dark would be an understatement. Fen’Asha couldn’t see her own feet, but she made careful paces through the caverns. She had lost her sense of time and space and simply continued her ascent away from the farthest reaches below Thedas.

But she was glad to be away, glad to be somewhere _doing_ something. She was almost disappointed to leave the Deep Roads, even as her companions were more than pleased to leave the gloom.

“ _I should never have left you there_.”

The days following her return to Skyhold after the defeat of Corypheus had been exhausting. She spent a seeming eternity in her quarters before her advisers dragged her out into the open and made her bask in her heroic glow. Having forsaken the repairs to the hall leading toward the war room and the crumbling ramparts, the bridge had been mended. Guests from all over Thedas had gathered at Skyhold, wanting to see and possibly touch the Inquisitor.

Nobles stood alongside commoners, soaking in the glory of what had happened and celebrating the defeat of Corypheus. Merry faces familiar and strange greeted her and she sat on her throne, mind in different places and heart in a million pieces.

“ _The blame is mine, not yours. It was irresponsible and selfish of me_.”

Solas was gone, but his echoes remained. His paint supplies, clothing, pack, and his research lingered in the rotunda. He occupied the space as a shadow and his unfinished work spiraled the walls, with the beginnings of a Great Wolf set to pounce upon a slain dragon.

Leliana tried and failed to locate him, sending her agents far and wide. He had simply vanished, by most accounts. Was he alive? Was he dead? Nobody knew.

“ _I am sorry. That is a pain you cannot heal_.”

Fen’Asha wondered about the orb, its shattered and fragmented power. The Inquisition held its pieces, but there was no putting it together again. It would exist in a museum, as part of what once was.

“ _You cannot heal pain by hiding it_.”

In the midst of the celebrations came urgent news from Orzammar, with word of a rash of subterranean earthquakes collapsing one of the lyrium mines and endangering the existence of several others. And the seals that once held darkspawn away from the Deep Roads had crumbled, which led to an invasion of sorts.

Fen’Asha volunteered for the mission immediately, eager to shake the hand-shaking and praise of Skyhold. While her advisers recommended against it, she insisted and gathered Varric, Cole and Sera for a trip underground.

“ _You cannot treat a wound without knowing how deep it goes_.”

She met the Shaper Valta and Renn, an officer in the Legion of the Dead, but she felt alone. She kept quiet, kept to herself. But part of her was fascinated by the Shaper, by what she had turned up and by what she’d chosen to do.

Shaper Valta had been sent to do her work in the Deep Roads following her refusal to participate in some sort of political corruption. With Renn, she ventured through the endless tunnels and past the watchful Paragons.

And then, a year ago, Shaper Valta turned up text about the Titans. It predated the First Blight, suggested a form of intelligence behind the earthquakes that had been plaguing Thedas. Shaper Valta was of the belief that she could stop the quakes by reasoning with the Titan. Renn, needless to say, disagreed.

“ _You are truly content without fighting back_?”

As troubling as the darkspawn were, it turned out that the Sha-Brytol were the greater problem. These “revered defenders” lived well below even the Deep Roads and drank from the blood of the Titan, gaining strength in their mission to protect their beliefs from the “impurities” of the outside world.

Armed with mechanized crossbows and lyrium-infused armour, the Sha-Brytol put up a significant fight. Renn was lost in a battle and Shaper Valta was understandably distressed for quite some time.

“ _Harden your heart to a cutting edge_.”

But they ventured on, plunging deeper until they came across more Sha-Brytol and a giant source of pure lyrium. Shaper Valta decided that they were actually inside the Titan and subsequently made a decision to stay behind in the deepest of caverns to study the matter further.

“ _There is much beyond your understanding_.”

So with more questions than answers, Fen’Asha led the Inquisition to the surface and endured the silence once more. The group had few questions below and seemed to have even less to say as the surface loomed. That suited the Inquisitor just fine.

“ _Any answers I could provide would only lead to more questions_.”

She couldn’t shake her own questions, however. She couldn’t shake the need to return to Skyhold, burst into the rotunda, ask Solas about she’d discovered. She wondered what he would say about the Titan, about the lyrium, about Shaper Valta. She longed for his insight, his voice, his touch.

“ _I want you to know that what we have is real_.”

Fen’Asha directed the Inquisition to set up camp one last time near the exit of the Deep Roads. She wanted to rest before the journey back. There was ale and the tents were large and comfortable. Varric and Sera took to drinking, while Cole lingered near the Inquisitor.

“The Wolf chews off his leg to escape the trap,” he said finally.

“Who are you talking about, Cole?” asked Fen’Asha.

“It is a path he must walk in solitude forever,” continued Cole. “He never intended to hurt you…”

Fen’Asha stared into her empty mug, wondering if dwarven ale was capable of causing hallucinations.

“The Lone Wolf, solitary, turned away, except for you. Warm, bright, she shines like the sun,” Cole said. “Thirsting for her -- for you, water like fire. Fire that can cleanse. Fire at the heart... It hurt him to hurt you.”

“I don’t understand…”

“You are alone, lost, floating free,” Cole said. “Heart burning for one thing, burning for him. But he wants you to be free. Wants you to forget.”

Fen’Asha sighed, clanked her mug against the side of the stone table. “Solas,” she mumbled. “Maybe I don’t want to forget.”

“There is hurt but those memories make you glad,” Cole said. “I won’t try to take your pain. I cannot pay your cost.”

“My cost?” asked Fen’Asha.

“You have questions and there are answers, reaching and heaving from the beyond,” he said.

Fen’Asha nodded.

“You must push the pain aside,” said Cole. “Carry through, live in light again. Breathe.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Fen’Asha.

Cole took his leave and Fen’Asha poured herself another ale, sitting alone at a table away from the others. She caught their eyes from time to time, but they knew to leave her be.

She considered what Cole had said and considered the Dread Wolf. The trickster god.

“ _If we are alive afterward, everything will be made clear_.”

She considered his aid, how it did not come freely. She wondered about the costs, about the price. About the Anchor, still glowing in her hand. About Corypheus, gone. About the Inquisition, still following her through the darkest corners of Thedas and beyond.

What was the cost? How could she live in the light again without knowing?

“ _Mala suledin nadas_. _Endure_.”


	40. Pt.3 - Harillen: Grace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing can beat me down for your pain or delight. And nothing seems to break me. No matter how hard I fall nothing can break me at all. Not one for giving up though not invincible I know. I've givin' everything I need. I'd give you everything I own. I'd give in if it could at least be ours alone.  
> \- “Blow Up The Outside World" Soundgarden

When Fen’Asha returned to Skyhold, she prayed without ceasing.

But Solas did not return from his hiding place. His rotunda sat as ever and it burned her. She felt hollow without him, felt like she’d sleepwalked through the Deep Roads and the celebrations and every moment of her existence since the fall of Corypheus and the loss of that blasted orb.

She tried to think of the orb, sat in her room and tried to concentrate on the pieces. Tried to make herself angry, tried to make herself feel a sense of hope. The world was safe, wasn’t it? She’d won, hadn’t she?

Fen’Asha had Josephine arrange to transport Solas’ belongings to her room. It was for safe-keeping, she told herself. In case he returned. In case someone took his paint supplies or rifled through his notes in the rotunda.

She touched his elfroot soap, remembering the scent and remembering his embrace.

She placed the bar near the golden Fen’Harel and prayed, ensuring to return to his shrine each and every night. She slept with the Solas’ sleep aid beneath her pillow, willing her dreams to peace with the unmistakable aroma.

And slowly, she ventured back out of her quarters.

 

One day, she gathered with her friends for another game of Wicked Grace in the tavern. The drink was flowing, the cards were flying across the table and money was exchanged at a leisurely rate.

“Divine Cassandra,” Varric was saying as he put more money into the pot. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.”

“Having Cassandra on the throne will go a long way to reconciling things,” suggested Blackwall.

“If by reconciling, you mean punching shit she doesn’t like,” said Varric. “Then sure.”

“Divine Victoria,” mused Dorian as he added his own money to the centre of the table. “Puncher of Heretics.”

Sera chuckled and took a swig from her enormous flagon of ale. “Wearer of Huge Hats.”

“I can hear you,” said Cassandra from the far end of the table.

“Sorry, your worship,” said Varric.

“Please,” said Cassandra, waving her hand dismissively. “I could use a little action.”

“Oh?” said Dorian, raising an eyebrow.

“That’s not what I mean,” scowled Cassandra. “But Inquisitor, if you should require my sword or my fist, do not hesitate to ask.”

Fen’Asha nodded and drank. “Something the matter?”

“The clerics drown me in arrangements for my coronation,” said Cassandra. “I must meet with everyone to hear their concerns, which are unending and unimportant. Every complaint is now mine to resolve. And I have to decide the menu. The menu. Can you imagine?”

“Go with soup,” said Sera. “Always soup.”

Cassandra dealt the cards and exhaled.

“That’s going in the book,” said Varric. “I think…”

“You think?” asked Sera. “You better be getting this down.”

“I don’t think anybody would believe it,” said Varric. “Plus, work shit.”

“Shit,” said Sera. “Call it ‘This Shit is Weird.” Because it is. Just write it. Stuff work.”

“You make it sound so simple,” said Varric as he looked at his cards.

“It’s not?” asked Sera. “You put your pen to the little page thing, you start scribbling, words come out. Writing is easy.”

Varric coughed.

“Well, I’m going to need something to read,” said Dorian. He threw his cards in the middle.

“You can read my mind,” said Iron Bull, finally arriving to join the party.

“I don’t think anyone wants to do that,” said Dorian with a roll of the eyes.

“I do, I do,” said Sera. She put the back of her hand on her forehead and closed her eyes.

“Oh Maker,” said Cassandra.

“Dragons, dragons, dragons, dragons,” sputtered Sera. “Ale, ale, ale, ale. Dorian’s butt.”

“Seems about right,” shrugged Iron Bull, clasping a hand on Dorian’s shoulder.

Dorian buried his head in his hands.

“And to think,” said Iron Bull, tucking into a giant mug of ale. “I joined on orders from the Ben-Hassrath, only to become Tal-Vashoth and now I’ve bagged myself a Vint.”

“This shit _is_ weird,” said Sera.

Varric shook his head and seemed to be the only person at the table looking at his cards.

“Will you return to Tevinter, Dorian?” asked Fen’Asha.

“Sooner or later,” sighed Dorian, appreciating the exit strategy. “For now, my staff is here with the Inquisition.”

“And so is mine,” chuckled Iron Bull.

“Your staff?’ said Dorian. “You don’t have a…oh.” He turned a vibrant shade of red.

“Staff,” murmured Sera.

Even Fen’Asha laughed. She took another swig of ale and warmed inside. She felt good.

“I’m staying too,” said Blackwall.

“Of course you are,” said Sera.

“What does that mean?” said Fen’Asha, eyes darting from the elf to Blackwall.

“He’s all bits and tickles for someone,” Sera said musically.

“He is not,” said Blackwall.

“He is too,” said Sera. “Even does all kinds of knightly things. Picking flowers, writing poems, doing little dances. In private.”

“Little dances?” asked Fen’Asha. “With who?”

“More like _for_ who,” said Sera. “He’s a private dancer.”

“Does he dance for money?” wondered Varric.

“Maker, Sera,” said Blackwall. “Stay out of it.”

“Golden, graceful, glittering but not gaudy,” said Cole. He was turning a card around in his hand.

“Oh come on,” said Blackwall.

“Voice delicate, delectable, sweet, soft, silky,” said Cole.

“Someone’s frisky,” said Sera.

“Her dress,” said Cole. “And also, under her dress.”

“Maker’s balls,” said Blackwall.

“I think it’s romantic,” said Cassandra.

“You would,” said Blackwall.

“If you want my advice,” said Iron Bull with his arm around Dorian.

“No, I don’t want your advice,” said Blackwall.

“Wait,” said Fen’Asha. “Who are we talking about?”

“Josie,” said Sera, Cole, Iron Bull, Dorian, and Cassandra at once.

“Oh,” said Fen’Asha. “Well, congratulations, Blackwall.”

“He hasn’t even talked to her yet,” said Sera with a chuckle.

Blackwall was shaking his head.

“And why is that?” asked Varric.

“It never occurred to me,” said Blackwall. “End of discussion.”

“You’re shy,” said Cassandra. “That’s simple delightful.”

“Don’t you have any Divining to do?” said Blackwall.

“I can show you what to do,” said Sera. “I need a peach. A ripe one. Because.”

“Because…” asked Blackwall.

“Because if you do it right…” began Sera.

“Oh, Maker,” said Blackwall. “Nevermind.”

“It will be juicy,” finished Sera with a flourish.

Fen’Asha giggled.

“He has to talk to her first,” said Dorian. “He can’t just dive below and hope for the best, can he?”

Blackwall shook his head. “We’re not talking about this,” he said.

“But we _are_ talking about this,” said Cole. “It touches from afar like thumbs between twin peaks, the questioning, the feelings, the erecting stone towers mounting toward the soft, damp glow of distant…”

“Stop,” said Blackwall. “Just stop.”

“I know,” said Sera. “I could write her a poem.”

Blackwall stood from the table and dropped his cards on it. “I hate you,” he said with a faint smile beneath his beard. He bowed with a flourish before turning on his heel and making his way outside.

“So romantic,” mused Cassandra as the game carried on.


	41. Pt.3 - Harillen: Fen'Harel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was lost and beat up, turned out, burned up. You found me through a heartache. Knowing, you were drawn in. I was lost and beat up. I was warm flesh, unseasoned. You found me in your gaze. You found me.  
> \- “Wolves Lyrics” Kanye West

While Fen’Asha felt relatively upright around her friends, she fell into shadow when she was alone. As much as she tried to avoid loneliness, it stalked her each day. Her advisers and acquaintances were in and out of Skyhold with regularity, pursuing their own interests and taking care of certain business.

Morrigan and Kieran said their goodbyes. Varric returned to Kirkwall. Dorian accompanied Iron Bull and The Chargers with increasing frequency. Sera and Dagna were taking a trip to Val Royeaux. Cassandra was swept away by the Chantry. The Inquisition was changing.

Fen’Asha set herself to prayer, to praying with Cullen, to spending time with her prayer stone. She walked the garden clutching it, smiling and nodding at the passers-by. She tightened her grip when she saw the Chantry sisters.

Time passed as it did and the celebration faded. There was ample time for reading and quiet study. There was ample time for eating and drinking. Fen’Asha tried everything to keep her mind from Solas, from the possibilities, from the costs.

But she ventured back, each night. She kept her ritual, wandered through her dreams to the altar and wondered where he was. She wanted to see the Wolf, wanted to ask questions, wanted to know answers.

After another day of frustration, the Inquisitor tumbled into her bed and sleep visited her immediately.

* * *

 

She was pulled to her favoured location and she strode through the water to the altar steps, inhaling the warm air. She pulled at her clothing, but it stuck to her. White robes, damp from the humidity.

She took the steps, one by one, and exhaled when she reached the top. Someone was standing there. Someone tall. Someone in dark clothing. Someone…familiar and yet ancient, impossible.

Someone turned slightly when she padded across the final step.

“I knew you would follow,” someone said. A masculine voice, a rumble but a familiar cadence.

She watched him, took in his appearance. Black fur clung to him. A wolf pelt, its head pulled over his own. Six red eyes pulled down over his own. A mask, obscuring and defining him at once. The texture of the fur, the softness and tenderness greeting her and averting her. He held her silver wolf in his hand. He dangled it helplessly.

“But I must confess, I did not know you would find me here,” he continued.

He turned the offering, nodded. It was appropriate. It was his offering. He was…

“I…have been faithful,” Fen’Asha said. “Ever since you delivered us from Haven, I have been faithful.”

His head perked up, like he’d heard a distant sound. Prey.

“I have done nothing without thought of your favour,” she said. “Fen’Harel.”

He continued to listen for the reverberations in the distance, continued to cock his head this way and that, continued to toy with the offering in his fingers.

Fen’Asha watched him. Was he listening? Was he indifferent to her faithfulness? She stepped toward him and felt the ground shudder beneath her feet. She felt her heat rise, her anger. The cost.

“And?” said Fen’Harel.

“I…” she said. She faltered, choosing careful steps now. “I must know. Why was Solas your cost? Why the person I love most?”

Fen’Harel sighed.

“Tell me,” she said. Her words grew louder, her steps sturdier. “I must know…”

“You must forget,” said the Dread Wolf. He still hadn’t turned to face her.

“I cannot,” said Fen’Asha. She was firm.

“Find happiness elsewhere,” breathed Fen’Harel.

“Find happiness elsewhere?” she said. “But I want to know why. I must know why.”

“The answers are…unbearable,” said Fen’Harel. The silver wolf dangled, hung from a noose.

“No,” she said. “No. I must know.”

He was silent.

“You can’t just take him…” she said. She felt like shouting, felt like bursting.

He was silent.

She burst. She sailed toward him as though weightless and pummeled him with heavy fists, pounding into his back, into the thick fur of the pelt. Matting it down, punishing it but not him.

He turned, pulled at her and wrapped her arms to stop the motion. He squeezed, heat on his skin, mulled aroma on his breath.

“What…is it?” she shouted. “Was it the orb? Because I didn’t save it? Is that why you took everything from me?”

Fen’Harel said nothing. He pressed against her when she struggled again, when she tried to pull her arms loose from his grasp.

“Tell me,” she cried.

“Some bonds are meant to be broken,” he said finally. “No matter the command of desire behind them.”

“What do you mean?” she said. She was calming. Trying to.

“Wishing for something to be so does not make it so,” he said. His grip softened.

“So you can do nothing,” she said. She slipped free, wiped tears from her eyes.

“I will do nothing,” he said.

She stepped back, took a look at him. Saw him standing in his own shadow, tall and daunting. Familiar and strange. Searing and proud. She felt her knees weaken in his presence. She wanted to run, wanted to flee. But she’d spent so much time asking for him, spent so many hours wanting answers. Frustration gave way to awe as she found herself shaking.

He turned around again, faced the altar. His altar.

“I…” she began again. “ _Ir abelas_. I beg forgiveness, Dread Wolf.”

“There is no need,” he said.

“There is,” she said. She reached for him but stopped herself.

He shook his head.

“I will continue to serve,” she bowed her head. “I will remain faithful. I dedicate myself to you…your service.”

The words hung in the air like fog.

“I…desire only to serve you,” she said.

“I have no need for a servant,” he said.

“I serve willingly,” she said. “I want to. Please.”

Fen’Harel sighed. Was it frustration? Exhaustion in the presence of this poor hopeless woman? Was it anger, finally settling in after Fen’Asha’s failure?

“Please,” she continued.

“It seems I cannot disturb the stout will of the faithful,” he said. “Your service…has not gone unnoticed.”

“I am humbled,” she said. Her words seemed to possess her.

“My hunger for you grows,” he said.

She looked up, eyes wide. “Your hunger…?”

He turned again, walked toward her. His feet were light on the stone of his altar.

“I…” she exhaled. She trembled, breathe quavering.

“If you are to be in my service,” he said. “You will require guidance.” He was closer. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Yes,” she said. She bowed her head again, let his fingers examine her tresses.

“You will require…” he continued.

“Yes?”

“You will…” he said. His voice slipped away.

“Yes?”

“Wake up,” he rumbled.

* * *

 

She woke with a start, heart pounding as the covers threatened her with their humidity. She tore from her bed and felt her feet on the cool floor. She saw the golden wolf and it grinned at her.

“You will require guidance,” she said to herself. “Guidance.”

She had seen him, finally. Seen him in her dreams, at his altar, with her offering. And her offering was sufficient for him. He was pleased with her faithfulness.

She was pleased with herself. She was ready to serve.

She nearly bounced from her quarters, greeting guards with unseen enthusiasm and collecting more than a few quizzical looks in return. She’d been so depressed after Corypheus, so guarded after Solas. But she smiled now, grinned and even shook hands with unsuspecting nobles in the throne room. She gushed as they showed her new fabrics and held up shimmering gem trinkets.

“Good morning, Inquisitor,” said Leliana, approaching through the throne room. “I have news.”

“Please,” said Fen’Asha, guiding the spymaster through to the rotunda. It was instinct, but she settled against what was once Solas’ desk and crossed her arms.

Leliana looked around at the painting circling the room and sighed.

“What is it?” asked Fen’Asha.

“Inquisitor,” said Leliana. “As you know, we have been unable to locate Solas. Were he dead, we believe we would have found him by now. The current assumption is that he is eluding my agents, which has given me cause for concern.”

Fen’Asha nodded.

“When Solas approached the Inquisition, I interrogated him personally,” she continued. “He was ambiguous, but he did provide the name of the village where he grew up. He stated it was small, doubtful to appear on any map. I sought to authenticate his story and sent agents in pursuit of the lead. They have reported back…”

“What did they find?” asked Fen’Asha.

“What remains is a ruin,” said Leliana. “And it has been a ruin for centuries.”

“So,” began Fen’Asha. “He lied.”

Leliana nodded tentatively. “We have exhausted all leads,” she said.

“He was always hiding something,” said Fen’Asha.

“It appears so,” said Leliana. “I am sorry, Inquisitor.”

“You did the best you could,” said Fen’Asha.

“Do you wish us to press the leads or…” asked Leliana.

“We do not know what his plans are,” said Fen’Asha. “But he has vanished for a reason.”

“Yes, Inquisitor.”

“Keep your agents in the field,” said Fen’Asha. “For now.”

“Yes, Inquisitor.”

Fen’Asha nodded and Leliana took her leave, departing up the snaking stairwell to her position far above the rotunda.

The Inquisitor sat down at Solas’ desk, looked to the wolves.

He came from ruins. He left her in ruins.

He had warned her, hadn’t he? Everyone had warned her. There was so much she didn’t know, so much history that was now lost to the terrain of time. So much dust, floating helplessly in another world and another place.

She should have pressed him after Abelas, after the Temple of Mythal. She should have told him more, too.

The wolves were howling. She closed her eyes.

So many secrets. And now, so many lies. What was real? What did he want from her?

Perhaps Fen’Harel did her a favour by taking him from her, by ridding her of the rotten deceiver. Solas tricked her, after all. Played her for a fool. Played the entire Inquisition for a fool and vanished into the thick of night.

She looked down and found she was absently tearing someone’s papers on Solas’ desk, collecting the shreds into a large pile. She brushed it aside and stood. It was enough now.

 

Soon it was time to return to the war table and to unfinished business.

Corypheus was gone, but there were clusters of activity remaining. Red lyrium was still in abundance and elven ruins had been despoiled. There were also those displaced by war to contend with. New settlements would be required and new areas for refugees were needed. The Inquisition would be tasked to coordinate and they would have to show their might and compassion.

After a break at the war table, Fen’Asha found herself alone with Cullen. He was staring rather intently at a particular corner, his fingers gliding over the figurine representing his units.

Fen’Asha sighed, her mind drifting back to her dream. Her wonderful dream. Fen’Harel had touched her. And his touch had felt…

“You seem to be in good spirits,” said Cullen. “I was certain the news of Solas’ village would prove troubling.”

She nodded. “It is…unfortunate,” she said.

“How are you handling the…?” ventured Cullen.

“What we had is over,” she said quickly. “Solas is…a memory.”

“I suppose I should be glad you are taking it so well,” he said.

She watched his fingers dance across the curves in the small figurine, the small golden piece at the edge of the table. His other hand lay flat on the map, a strong palm covering a portion of Thedas.

“But if you ever find yourself in need…” he said.

She leaned against the table, still watching his hands. She toyed with the black prayer stone, ran it along the chain, ran it along the curve of her breast.

“I am more than happy to assist you,” said Cullen. “That is what friends are for, after all.”

She pulled at the chain. “Friends…”

“Friends,” said Cullen with a slight cough.

“Is that all?” asked Fen’Asha.

“I’m not sure I take your meaning.”

Fen’Asha rounded the table, heart thumping voraciously. Her mind swam. The altar, the water, the wet.

“But I have appreciated our time together,” Cullen said. “I have appreciated you on your knees…”

Fen’Asha’s eyes widened.

“In prayer,” said Cullen, his hand darting to the back of his neck. “I have appreciated the time we have spent together on our knees. In supplication, contemplation…in…”

“I have appreciated it too,” she said, looking down.

“There is much…” began Cullen. “I do think of you, Inquisitor. I cannot conceal it.”

“And I you,” said Fen’Asha. The prayer stone slipped from her fingers and her hand slid across the table toward his fumbling fingers.

“Oh…” said Cullen. “Well…”

The door rattled open and Josephine entered, carrying a silver pot of tea on a rather sumptuous salver. She blinked when she saw Cullen and blinked twice when she saw the Inquisitor, certain that there were more buttons buttoned on her chemise when she’d first departed for refreshments and certain the temperature in the room was rather warm.

“Josephine,” said Cullen. “Thank you for the hot tea.” He grinned and assisted her with the tray.

“Thank you, Commander,” said Fen’Asha as she turned to face the wall. “I appreciate your assistance in locating my… hanuslavin.”

Josephine was about to ask what a “hanuslavin” was when the Inquisitor dashed from the room in a bustle of pale honey tresses and effervescent flesh.


	42. Pt.3 - Harillen: Foraged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the earth, you were made. To the earth, you returned. And I'll always speak your name. Let it burn, let it burn. Chase the bee for honey, how she can sting. Bathe in holy water, drown until you sing.  
> \- “The Dying Kind” Joy Williams

Fen’Asha walked the bridge to the altar, thinking of Cullen’s hands and Fen’Harel’s fur in one singular breath. The worlds were melding together in a fashion and she shook her head, disbelieving the surges from below.

Parched flowers remained in the offering plate, the wolves imposing above. Her silver wolf was gone, the suggestion of a right offering. She warmed at the thought of it.

And she warmed as the thought of Cullen once more invaded. It felt different to consider him in her dream, in her sleep. He was handsome, kind, attentive. He was tender. She considered him, considered the weight of his hands and how they would feel on her form, how they would feel between…

“Come here often?” came a voice.

She turned quickly, face flushed. “Dread Wolf?” she said.

“Am I not welcome in my own shrine?” he said. He stood tall before her, close.

“Of course,” she said. “I am surprised to see you.”

He exhaled, breath hot.

“How can I serve you, Fen’Harel?” she said, bowing her head in supplication before him.

“Why are you here?” he said.

“I am here for you,” she said.

“Why?”

She blushed again, looked down. “I confess to having rather selfish motives,” she began. Her hands twiddled. “I was lost after Haven, but I felt your guidance. And I was lost in the Crow Fens…after Solas…but again I felt your comfort. I have found you, your sanctuary, and I feel as though I belong. With you. Serving you. I mean…”

“You have been faithful without confirmation,” he said.

“Cole…” she began, looking to him. “He spoke of you.”

“And you trust this spirit?” said Fen’Harel.

“Yes,” she nodded. “Perhaps I was clinging to hope, but…”

“What is it you wish?” said Fen’Harel. He stepped closer.

She exhaled. “I…I wish to serve,” she said. “I wish for what you wish.”

“And what do I wish?”

“For freedom,” she said. “Equality.”

“Is that so?” he said. He was so close.

“I…believe so,” she faltered.

“This is your faith, Fen’Asha,” he said. “Be secure in it.”

She nodded.

He stretched for her with one hand, grazed her face and drew her ponytail over her shoulder. His fingers foraged the chain, sketched it down to the arch of her bosom. Touched the stone that lay over her drubbing heart. He lifted it. Examined it.

The Wolf’s head hung down, red eyes glistening. The soft fur, his figure, his energy, his lips… It was all too familiar and yet… She wanted…

She touched his hand, softly, then pulled it against her chest so he could feel her heart pounding. She closed her eyes, feeling the condensation crease around her. She could feel his regard, probing her, inspecting her. Her breast rose and fell with her quickened breath. She could feel his heat. He was so close. The energy sizzled. Her lips parted as she inhaled deeply.

“Fen’Asha,” he said at last. “…Wake up.”

* * *

 

“You are looking absolutely ecstatic, aren’t you?” said Vivienne.

Fen’Asha grinned, still feeling the mugginess from her reverie. She leaned against the railing.

“Could it be that the rumours of you and the Commander are true after all?” continued Vivienne.

“Well, I…”

“Or do you have our Solas slipped away somewhere?” asked Vivienne with a coquettish smile.

“No,” said Fen’Asha.

“Well,” said Vivienne. “You do seem…different. It is an agreeable change from your customarily, shall we say, disheartened nature. It befits you.”

“Thank you?”

“I suppose I should come to the point, Inquisitor,” said Vivienne. “I require your aid.”

Fen’Asha nodded.

“I seek a critical ingredient for a formula,” Vivienne continued. “I…require the heart of a snowy wyvern.”

“I could have Leliana send some scouts,” said Fen’Asha.

“Chevaliers were sent to seek the element,” said Vivienne. “Alas, they were slain.” She waved her hand.

“Oh.”

“It occurs to me that should I want something done acceptably, I must ensure to do it myself,” said Vivienne.

“What do you require this heart for?” asked Fen’Asha.

“I must bid you to honour my discretion in this matter,” said Vivienne. “It is, needless to say, an exceptional request from a member of the council of Heralds.”

“Well,” said Fen’Asha. “What do you need me to do?”

“I require your company,” said Vivienne. “These creatures are dangerous, beyond even my purview, and I should like your expertise for the journey.”

“You want me to join you on an errand?”

Vivienne nodded. “Your company would be of paramount delight, of course,” she said. She swallowed.

“I would enjoy a good hunt,” said Fen’Asha thoughtfully.

“You have my appreciation,” said Vivienne. “The home of this creature is in the Exalted Plains, the Crow Fens. We shall follow the trail of corpses, so to speak.”

“I believe I know the place,” said Fen’Asha, touching her prayer stone.

“Excellent,” said Vivienne. “I am ready to depart when you are, Inquisitor.”

 

Fen’Asha couldn’t help but feel at home in the Crow Fens. Its fragrance and its temperature served many memories and she felt the warmth of the water below diverging with the cool air above.

Vivienne, Iron Bull and Dorian joined her in the trudge through the shallow water and the Orlesian mage was questioning the Qunari about his weapon-cleaning habits. The Inquisitor couldn’t help but grin at the exchange, but she kept one eye on her surroundings. The altar was near and the wyvern would have to be around somewhere.

“I certainly have missed this,” Dorian was saying.

“Whatever do you mean, darling?” asked Vivienne.

“The occasion to mock Orlesian fancy and its ensuing gibberish,” said Dorian. “And you, with your own occasions to turn your nose to Tevinter excess.”

“And oppression,” added Vivienne. “You must not forget the oppression.”

Dorian bowed deeply. “But of course,” he said. “As luck would have it, there is a commendable camaraderie worth attending to.”

“And what, pray tell, is that?” asked Vivienne.

“We could be Antivan,” snorted Dorian.

“Ah,” said Vivienne with a sly smile. “That would be most awful.” She stopped the group and held up her hand, pointing ahead.

The altar was close and a pale wyvern stalked through the water ahead, leaving small ripples in the water. It was thickly muscled and moved vigorously, tail flittering about behind it and jaws open slightly as though tasting the air.

Iron Bull raised his weapon and roared as soon as Vivienne gave the go-ahead. He burst forward, kicking up torrents of water in the process and lunging with great sloshing noises at the creature. The beast was equal to the task and spun to face the Qunari, nipping at him ferociously before skittering backward at the sight of the other three combatants.

Fen’Asha focused her energy and cast a blast of fire at the wyvern’s feet, knocking it over in the process. Dorian and Vivienne followed with their own magic, dispatching the beast in short order.

Iron Bull turned around, axe still raised. “What the hell?” he said. “You couldn’t even let me have one shot?”

Fen’Asha shrugged.

Vivienne produced a dagger and approached the creature. “I shall extract the heart,” she said. “You may do the cutting if you wish, Bull.”

Iron Bull scoffed. “It’s not the same.”

Fen’Asha eyed the shrine from the corner of her perspective. “I…” she stammered.

Vivienne, Dorian and Iron Bull looked at her with questioning eyes.

“I’ll be…right back,” she said, slipping sideways toward the altar.

Vivienne nodded and returned to the gory mission of slicing open the wyvern. The stench soon distracted Iron Bull and Dorian from whatever Fen’Asha was doing.

The Inquisitor tracked through the water quickly. There was no need to allow more time for suspicion, so she picked up her pace and was soon at a full jog. She crossed the bridge to the altar, feeling its energy shifting under her feet. The air was heavy before the wolves. She clutched her stone. The Dread Wolf had clutched it, too.

Fen’Asha peered at the altar and noticed the offering plate. Dead flowers, like she remembered. And her necklace…

It was gone.

“This is creepy,” came Dorian’s voice from behind. He was back at the bridge and was approaching tentatively.

“Yes…” said Fen’Asha, turning around to face him.

“I do not recall encountering an elven shrine like this one,” continued the mage. “But…the Dread Wolf, I presume?”

Fen’Asha nodded.

“The scoundrel of Dalish tales,” said Dorian lightly.

“He walked the middle path, neither creator nor forgotten one,” said Fen’Asha with a little too much symmetry.

“Still, it’s creepy,” said Dorian with a shrug.

Vivienne appeared next, blood clinging to the front of her robes. She held up a blood-soaked satchel and patted it. “You have been a treasure to bring me here, darling,” she said as she scanned the altar.

Fen’Asha nodded.

“You’re welcome,” coughed Iron Bull from below. He was admiring the wolves.

“Yes, well,” said Vivienne. “Shall we proceed? I would like the Inquisitor to join me as I see this through to its conclusion, whatever that may be.”

“That’s not portentous in the least,” commented Dorian as they strode away from Fen’Harel’s steamy altar.

 

The next step of Vivienne’s journey found the Inquisitor and the enchanter alone in a carriage. There was a distinctive inelegance between the two that carried all the further as the wheels bounded in and out of the frequent furrows in the road.

And Vivienne was nervous for a change, which was certainly an odd development. Throughout the hunting of the wyvern and even the extraction of the heart, she’d maintained her confident aura. But, she wasn’t the superior enchantress or the devil-tongued mage. She was simply a woman trying to get to where she was going. If there was a clock on the wall, she’d be checking it every minute and praying for the advancement of time.

The carriage finally rattled to a stop at a grand mansion and the servants arrived to greet Vivienne, extending hands and bows. Fen’Asha followed the enchantress and the entourage through the mansion, past rooms of luxury and unreasonable opulence to a final boudoir with an elaborate bed tucked at the end.

A man lay on the bed and Vivienne eyed him. “This will only take a moment,” she said softly as she took the man’s hand.

His eyes opened weakly and a smile curved across his lips.

“I am here,” she whispered.

His lips moved, but words did not escape them.

Vivienne touched him and produced a vial, presumably a potion she’d concocted from the wyvern heart. She poured as much of it into his wavering mouth as she could, then dabbed the drippings from the corners of his lips with loving care.

He breathed her name and she smiled.

“My darling,” she said.

“It’s going to be…” he began, his voice teetering. “You’re going to be…alright.” He lifted a shaky hand to touch hers, but his grin was fading.

“Bastien?” she said.

His hand fell and he exhaled.

Her eyes widened and she blinked heavily. She reached for his neck, checking. “Bastien is dead,” she said quietly.

“I am sorry, Vivienne,” said Fen’Asha, not knowing whether to draw near or stay at a distance.

Vivienne lowered her head for a moment, then stood from the side of the bed. “There is nothing here now,” she said. She stood and left the room.

The return trip was as quiet as the trip to the mansion.

Fen’Asha felt helpless and couldn’t form words. She did not feel close to Vivienne, but she could fathom what must have been her grief. She watched the enchantress as she stared absently outside, as she wasn’t rattled by the ruts in the road and didn’t comment on the wafting aromas from the wilderness. There was no haughty nature. There were no snide remarks.

Perhaps death had a numbing effect at times, but this wasn’t one of those times. This was so ordinary, so domestic. There were no demons responsible, no sword-slashes to the heart to drain the blood. It was a curious, unremarkable death by most accounts, but it was earth-shattering to Vivienne.

It was tragic. A lover left alone. Fen’Asha’s mind swam. It was the only fate awaiting a former elvhen lover. That is if fate had been kind. If they had…

“It was at the Wintersend Ball,” Vivienne said finally. “My first visit to the Imperial Palace.” A fond smile touched her face.

Fen’Asha blinked, pulled back to the present.

“The Circle sent a dozen of us to regale the nobility,” said Vivienne. “I was in awe, a silly girl with stars in her eyes. And our eyes met across the room. Bastien spent the rest of the Ball at my side. The dowager even tried to have him murdered for his slight, but he didn’t care.”

“It sounds wonderful,” said Fen’Asha.

“He was ever the dashing rogue,” said Vivienne. “It was an innocent time.” She looked away.

Fen’Asha wondered if she should embrace the enchantress, join her on her side of the carriage, offering guidance or physical sympathy or a touch of some kind. Anything.

“I must write his son,” said Vivienne as though remembering a long-forgotten task. “And his sister will make a terrible fuss if she is not the first to know. And the services…”

“If you require aid,” said Fen’Asha. “We have the Inquisition.”

“No, my dear,” said Vivienne. “I shall take care of these errands myself.”


	43. Pt.3 - Harillen: Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moon's too bright. The chain's too tight. The beast won't go to sleep. I've been running through these promises to you that I made and I could not keep. But a man never got a woman back, not by begging on his knees. Or I'd crawl to you baby and I'd fall at your feet. And I'd howl at your beauty like a dog in heat. And I'd claw at your heart. And I'd tear at your sheet. I'd say please, I'm your man.  
> \- “I’m Your Man” Leonard Cohen

“We are making headway, but the red lyrium is deep underground,” Cullen said from behind his desk in his quarters. He passed Fen’Asha the current research on the Titans, but there was little by way of new information. One of the Titans had the Blight, but there was nothing to do and nowhere to go from there.

“We know so little,” said Fen’Asha.

“The mages work around the clock to protect the natural world from the Blight,” continued Cullen. “But there are many limitations.” He sighed and stood.

Fen’Asha sighed as well and crossed her arms. “Perhaps a walk?”

He smiled and led the way to the door, opening it.

They strolled the ramparts quietly, watching the guards and the bustle of activity below. And there were knowing glances from a few of the men, especially as Fen’Asha drew nearer and nearer to Cullen by the footstep.

Cullen sighed after noticing two guards rush to a hushed conversation after he passed. “You wouldn’t believe how quickly gossip spread throughout the barracks,” he commented.

“What do you mean?” asked Fen’Asha absently.

“I would rather our private affairs remain private,” said Cullen. “But rumours and hearsay does appear to boost morale among the guards, so perhaps that is its own incentive.”

They crossed to an empty room, one of many still occupying Skyhold, and opened the door to the musty insides. There were stacks and stacks of papers and books in one of the corners and covered paintings were haphazardly piled against the far wall.

“This is to be an art room,” said Cullen. “I guess.”

Fen’Asha uncovered some of the paintings and gave mind to a certain image that spiraled the rotunda wall, with howling wolves and incomplete dragon curving around the surface.

Eventually she drew closer to him, felt his presence near. She brushed her hand against his. “I’ve never been in this room before… There are many things in Skyhold I’ve yet to explore.”

“There are…” he said. “Many things I too have not done that I have wished to do.”

“Such as?”

“A gentleman maintains his mysteries, Inquisitor,” he said. His eyes were rapaciously scanning her form and he was unconcealed in his endeavour to uphold his privacy.

“I can keep a secret,” said Fen’Asha. She pressed her body against his, feeling his muscular figure under his familiar clothing.

“I can’t,” he breathed and pulled himself to her face, kissing her abruptly.

She gasped but relented to him, allowing his mouth to search hers, allowing his tongue to enter, allowing her eyes to close to the clement vibrations coursing through her trembling body.

“I am sorry,” Cullen said as he pulled himself away. “I was impulsive, Inquisitor.”

“No,” said Fen’Asha, looking up at him. “Don’t…” She pulled him closer, kissing him again and gripping his soft fur-rimmed garments, wolf-like garments… She closed her eyes and heard the distant howling.

 

Fen’Asha sighed as she climbed the stairs to her quarters. She was happy to be back after another long exertion in another elven ruin. She lit a candle, sat on the edge of her bed, held herself close. Her thoughts swam in the flicker of her fire and she watched the shadows dance. She was in her room. Shouldn’t she have sought Cullen’s?

What was she doing?

She knew her memories were torn by Solas, were inflicted with his remains and his considerations. His words had ceased to echo in her mind for the time being, but there was no questioning the weight of his presence. She pondered him constantly, read his name in every document and saw his face in every mirror. He lurked behind her, his breath coursing through every dream. Every quiet moment was interrupted by another recollection, another whisper from the past.

But there was Cullen. Sweet and available, powerful and prepared. He was composed and without volatility. He would stand near her forever, wouldn’t he?

“I can keep a secret,” she had told him. She certainly could keep secrets. She could keep her mouth closed in the dark, let her figure do the talking, let her hands pull him inside and never let him out. She could give him what he wanted, but it wasn’t what he wanted. Not entirely.

What was she doing?

Had she given Solas what he wanted? Had she let him inside? Hardly. She kept her secrets again, kept her undercroft closed when she undulated with sensations from the Dread Wolf. Perhaps that was fate, perhaps that was all she _could_ give.

Still, there was time to rectify herself, to offer herself prostrate at the altar of good intentions and to offer herself to a good man, a decent man, an honourable and handsome man. A man who could make her blood bubble with feverish anticipation. A man who held her hand.

But something held her back. Something kept her running from Skyhold and its Commander. Something kept her running to the mysteries of elven ruins. Some distant consideration from the altar she really wanted to kneel at. A distant wailing from the offering she wanted to leave, from the figure she wanted to serve.

What was she doing?

Fen’Harel awaited her in her dreams. True to his, word he gave her guidance. She fell into a familiar role, devoted student, ardent admirer. They spoke of ancient Dalish warriors, the Emerald Knights and their tragic connection to the Second Exalted March. They spoke of Sulevin Blade and the dangers of performing unknown rituals. They spoke of Dirthamen’s followers and the tragedy that befell them in order to keep his secrets.

She was nearly accustomed to his presence, it nearly seemed normal.

It was surreal.

“My hunger for you grows,” he said.

As did her hunger for him. Her body flushed as if touched by fever. She held herself, licked her lips. She wanted…

She gave herself up to sleep, hoping resolution would come in the form of dreams and clouds and dark fur.

* * *

 

“You are here,” said Fen’Harel, shadows holding him.

“My god,” she whispered looking up from her kneeling position at his altar. She tried to move to a stand, but he rested a hand on her shoulder and told her to remain where she was.

He leaned against the black wolf, looking off into the endless billows of shadow that heaved beyond the altar’s watch. “Something plagues you,” he said.

She looked around, touched the stone ground. “I find comfort here,” she said.

“What is it you require comfort from, Fen’Asha?”

“Many things…” she whispered. “There are…so many questions. You have answered many, but I still know so little.”

“Yet you remain wise beyond your years,” said Fen’Harel.

Fen’Asha bit her lip and placed her palm against the back of her neck. She didn’t feel very wise.

“You are restless,” said Fen’Harel. “Where do you wish to go?”

“Go?”

“It is your dream,” said Fen’Harel. “Follow your desires.”

She blinked and found herself in the hollow grounds of the Dalish camp, with aravels prepared to depart and tents folded. The Dalish were supposed to be leaving, supposed to be moving from the wolves…with the wind.

“Your former home,” said Fen’Harel as he walked the grounds.

She nodded. “I was raised knowing that you were to stay away,” she stood. “I would have made for an odd Keeper.”

“Perhaps oddness is a benefit in strange times,” said Fen’Harel.

“They wouldn’t have agreed,” said Fen’Asha. She touched the fabric of a collapsed tent.

“Their legends hold limited truth,” said the Dread Wolf.

“My father would have agreed,” said Fen’Asha. “…And Solas.”

Fen’Harel’s eyes scanned the distant trees, the moon peering through the woods back at him.

“Solas…” Fen’Asha continued. “He once told me that the elven pantheon were not gods at all but mages…”

Fen’Harel nodded. “The Evanuris were mages. Powerful mages.”

Fen’Asha sighed. Elgar’nan. Mythal. The Forgotten Ones. “How…did they become gods?”

“It started with a war,” said Fen’Harel distantly. “War breeds fear, fear breeds a desire for simplicity. Good and evil, black and white. Legends spread from the remains of warfare, as generals became elders and kings and finally gods.”

“What does that make you?” asked Fen’Asha with a cautious smile.

“You know who I am,” said the Dread Wolf.

“You walk the Fade,” said Fen’Asha.

“I endured a dark, endless sleep while countless wars and ages passed,” said Fen’Harel. “I was thought an ally and an enemy.”

“What of the Maker?” asked Fen’Asha.

“What of the Maker?” repeated Fen’Harel.

“Do you have…thoughts?”

“The Maker is a god without the need to prove its power,” he said. “I wish more gods adhered to the same value. But even gods have limitations, flaws…”

“What do you mean?” asked Fen’Asha. She wanted to sit in the grass at his feet, wanted to drink him in, his knowledge.

“There is Falon’Din,” said Fen’Harel as though he was talking about a colleague from a distant workplace.

“Yes,” said Fen’Asha. “I was taught the prayers. ‘Guide my feet, calm my soul, lead me to my rest.’”

“And his vanity guides him,” said Fen’Harel.

Fen’Asha cocked her head, eager to hear more.

“His appetite for adulation was so great that he started wars to gain more followers,” said Fen’Harel. “He spilled the blood of those who would not follow. More than inseparable from Dirthamen, he was arrogant and prone to cruelty. Only Mythal was able to rally the gods to stop the bloodshed.”

“He was allowed to live…” asked Fen’Asha.

Fen’Harel nodded.

“And then Mythal was slain…by other gods?”

Fen’Harel nodded again, looking at her from beneath dark shadows.

“And that’s why you locked them away?” she asked. She felt like a child.

“’Deliverer of justice. Protector of sun and earth alike,’” mused Fen’Harel. “Their sentence for such horror was fair.”

She watched him, standing proud in the moonlight, a teacher over his pupil. The fur wrapping him, the moon satiating him in some way. He seemed taller, longer, broader than ever before.

“You have more questions,” he said.

“Endlessly,” she breathed before breaking into a smile.

“I do not frighten you?”

“No,” she said. “Is that foolish of me?”

Fen’Harel shook his head. “It’s your dream.”

“I…trust you,” she said. She reached for the softness of the wolf pelt, ceaseless desire finally breaching careful conduct. She wanted to pull it from him, wanted to see him clearly, wanted to absorb him inside.

“Why do you hesitate?” he asked.

“I do not understand…” she said, fingers buried in his silky black fur.

“You do,” said Fen’Harel. “There is clarity if you wish it.”

“I…” She looked off, sensing something in the skeletons of the trees nearby. Sensing darkness gathering.

“Tell me,” said Fen’Harel.

“I am confused,” she said. “By Solas…by you…there are reminders…”

“You miss him?”

She nodded. “I know there is nothing for me with him,” she said. “But…”

“What do you mean?”

“He is…different,” she said.

“What do you mean?” repeated Fen’Harel.

“My life is a blur for him,” she said. “He lives through the ages, ancient…”

“And?” asked Fen’Harel.

“I have been trying to forget,” she sighed.

“You are too insistent,” said Fen’Harel. “Too impatient, with yourself most of all.”

She nodded. Her mind flashed to her father, to distant memories again. She saw him, saw her eagerness turn to despair. She was impatient, without vision, without regard. Her clan had paid the price.

“Forgive yourself,” said Fen’Harel.

She bowed her head, gripped his fur, felt her eyes moisten.

“Fen’Asha,” said Fen’Harel. “What is it you truly seek?”

“I am…unsure,” she said. “Comfort. Love.”

“Love cannot be forced,” said Fen’Harel. “You know this. It comes and goes without your aid. It exists, with or without your insistence.”

“I…”

“If Solas could have denied his love for you,” continued the Dread Wolf. “He would have.”

She pulled him again, overcome with her tears. She held him close, pulled herself inside the warmth of his covering. She rested her head on his shoulder, wanted to speak, wanted to tell him everything.

He said her name.

“ _Ar lath_ … _ma_ ,” she breathed.

His arms wrapped around her, held her close. He said her name again.

“I do,” she said, hiding in the comfort of his touch. “I love you. I am…”

“Fen’Asha,” he sighed. “Wake up.”


	44. Pt.3 - Harillen: Oblation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beneath the noise, below the din, I hear a voice it's whispering. In science and in medicine. I was a stranger, you took me in. The songs are in your eyes. I see them when you smile. I've had enough of romantic love. I'd give it up. I'd give it up for a miracle drug.  
> \- “Miracle Drug” U2

Fen’Asha groaned. She was awake but had no interest in it. The moon was still blushing in the heavens, striking the outlines of her room.

She had reached for him, finally embraced him and been pulled out of his arms too quickly, with too much urgency. She tugged at her memories, needing to savour the scent, needing to savour the warmth. She found his arms, the softness of the wolf pelt on her cheek. She pulled at her blankets.

It was much too hot.

She squirmed, trying to allow the night air to cascade through her mess of sheets. The blankets sailed up and settled down, another embrace.

She summoned his caress, his hand. Her hand. How she wished to hold him always, wished to feel his fingers snaking around hers always.

She touched her prayer stone, recalled once more how he held it too. Her eyes drifted shut and the humidity of that place, the sweltering closeness of that place, fanned into her mind like vapour over the water.

She shivered at the thought of being back there again, longed to be back there again despite having just left, longed to do more than _want_.

“Why do you hesitate?” Fen’Harel had asked.

Why did she hesitate? Even in her cloistered thoughts, she wavered.

What stopped her wonderment? She had questions, after all. Questions that burned every night.

What was he…like? How did he taste? What was his kiss like? What was the texture? Was he more wolf than man? Was he man at all?

What would he do if…she asked him to touch her?

She touched the stone again, skimmed from the stone to the flesh of her breasts to the ascending admiration nearby. If she asked him to touch her there, on the rigid outliers…

Or if she asked him to touch her there with his mouth?

She quivered. What would his tongue feel like? Was he more wolf than man? Did it matter? Hot breath, panting, flickering tongue pressed behind stinging teeth, smoky fur clinging to powerful form.

Her hands traced the path of her curiosity, down from between her breasts to damp expanses beneath.

She parted her legs. An offering. What if she placed herself on the altar?

She shuddered at the thought, shook her mind of the irreverence. The sure transgression, indecency. The heat clinging to her, her damp garment barely holding on.

She moaned. She couldn’t help it.

What if he pressed himself against her? Was he more wolf than man?

She longed for it, for him. Longed to explore his expanse, longed to swell her hands across his soft sheath. She felt herself, waiting and panting with him.

And then the preparation before the effort of taking her, of entering her. The red eyes in the dusk, the simmering and seizing teeth gritted in the work of thrusting and urging and arriving.

How she moaned. Magic swelling at the ends of her fingertips, filling the void with vibrant warmth.

His lips, they would search her. They would taste her, too. It was her dream. But she was his offering and she would take all he had to give, every dimension of his body in hers. Of his mind in hers. Of his life in hers.

She arched her back, felt herself gave way to flood as she called for him under the moon’s forceful gaze.

 

She woke again aching and moist but contented. She stretched in the roundness of the sun and allowed the warmth to stream in. Her sheets had been tugged into a whirling muddle around her.

Fen’Asha lay back still stirring in the richness of the Dread Wolf, in the smoke of memories from her dreams. They were her dreams, he was her god. She was his servant.

And she sure as hell wanted to serve. But what did that mean? What could she do?

Her mind swam with possibilities. She remembered the Winter Palace, the Ball and its opulence. She remembered her imagination then, how she thrilled at the thought of the Dread Wolf pacing the halls and pissing in the fountain. How he would give the nobles something to think about, turn those society types on their heads, undo their abstract natural order…

That was it.

She sprang from her bed, pulled her clothes on and sprang across her quarters to the top of the stairs. She saw the banister, gripped it with her fingers and smiled. She slid down it, carving a path to the landing with a slight whooshing sound.

And she found Josephine at her desk, as usual.

“Inquisitor,” said the Ambassador.

Fen’Asha smiled. She noticed Josephine was tidying the colourful petals of a crystal vase of flowers.

“How are you this fine morning?” asked Josephine.

“I am well,” she replied. “And you appear pleased.”

“I am,” said Josephine.

“The flowers are lovely,” said Fen’Asha. “I believe I know the source…”

“I believe everyone does, Inquisitor,” said Josephine with a slender suggestion of redness in her cheeks.

“And?” prodded Fen’Asha.

“Blackwall is a thoughtful man,” said Josephine. “But there are too many differences in station. It is… _la splendeur des coeurs perdus_.”

“I had one of those, but it broke,” said Fen’Asha with a shrug.

Josephine chuckled lightly. “It is an Orlesian term,” she explained. “The splendour of lost hearts. Passion is noted but never accomplished. Whatever aspiring lovers wish, it must endure entombed by desire.”

“That sounds like a saying the Dalish have,” said Fen’Asha. She looked down. “ _Lathbora viran…_ the way of lost love.”

“He delivers flowers each week,” said Josephine.

“And yet it is restrained to sheer hunger,” said Fen’Asha.

“Ah, but there is power in longing,” replied Josephine. “Just as there is power in love. _La splendour des coeurs perdus_ concedes that power, some might even say it esteems it. There is dignity to it, but still…”

Fen’Asha nodded, attempting to see the value in want without the reprieve of touch or the heat of an embrace.

Josephine sighed. “There must be something I can do for you, Inquisitor,” she said.

“Yes,” said Fen’Asha, brought back to the present. “I wish to speak with you regarding Satinalia…”

“Satinalia,” repeated Josephine. “Yes, I am familiar. We have traditionally eschewed larger festivities for the sake of the Inquisition’s undertaking, but…”

“But Corypheus is dead,” finished Fen’Asha. “And I want to acknowledge that.”

“We have had much merriment in the time since your accomplishment, Inquisitor,” said Josephine. “But I can see no harm in broadening that endeavour.”

Fen’Asha smiled.

“What do you have in mind?”

“A celebration to rival the others,” said Fen’Asha. “A statement of purpose for the Inquisition. Freedom for all the people. A moment of equality…of a sort.”

“Yes,” said Josephine. “So you will require…food?”

“Food,” said Fen’Asha. “Drink. Decorations. And rules.”

“Rules?”

“Satinalia is about the upheaval of social order,” continued Fen’Asha. “It is about the conquest of customs.”

“It sounds a most dangerous interpretation,” said Josephine. “And delightful.”

“I want a masquerade,” said Fen’Asha, envisioning the idea in her mind as she spoke. “The servants will rule and the rulers will serve. There will be an Inquisitor and I will be…”

“The help,” said Josephine with a little giggle.

Fen’Asha nodded.

“This notion is most unusual,” said Josephine. “And yet most intoxicating. I shall arrange the provisions, Inquisitor. I do believe this will help further sow seeds of favour.”

“If nothing else, it will be one hell of a party,” said Fen’Asha. She turned from the desk after sniffing the flowers.

 

Cullen smiled up at Fen’Asha as she opened his door and strolled toward his desk. He greeted her.

“Good morning to you,” she said.

“You are looking particularly luminous this morning,” said Cullen.

“Thank you,” said Fen’Asha. “You are looking rather…luminous yourself.”

“Well,” said Cullen. “I don’t believe anyone has ever mentioned that before.” He stood and waved her to an available chair.

“I’m sure you were just waiting for someone to notice,” said Fen’Asha, sitting.

“You are quite right,” he said, sitting as well.

“I have been meaning to ask you something, Cullen.”

“Oh,” said the Commander.

“Have you…ever felt concerned spending so much time alone with a mage?” she said.

“A mage?” asked Cullen.

Fen’Asha cleared her throat.

“Oh,” said Cullen. “You mean you. I have barely had occasion to consider it, Inquisitor. I have enjoyed our time together and suppose the former Templar concerns on involvement have faded in my imagination.”

“Had we met in another time, another place,” Fen’Asha fidgeted, unsure of her direction. “Would those concerns have prevented our…involvement then?”

Cullen drummed his fingers on the side of his desk. “Truthfully, I am uncertain,” he said. “But it is difficult to imagine you would not have taken my notice.”

Fen’Asha nodded. The rules…always the damned rules.

“Is something the matter?” said Cullen.

“No,” said Fen’Asha examining the seam of her pants.

“If I have given you reason to doubt my feelings,” said Cullen. “You must know that whatever I fear of magic, I see none of that in you.”

“Of course,” she said glancing back to him.

Cullen watched her apprehensively. His hands began to open and close various desk drawers.

“Have you heard of _la splendeur des coeurs perdus_?” she asked after a moment of quiet.

“I believe it is a type of soup,” said Cullen. “But I have not tried…”

“It is an Orlesian term,” said Fen’Asha with a smile. “The splendour of lost hearts.”

“You have been speaking to Josephine,” said Cullen knowingly.

“She tells me there is value in yearning for that which you cannot have,” Fen’Asha continued. “But I am not certain…”

“There are many customs,” said Cullen.

“And there is much history,” said Fen’Asha.

“Yes,” said Cullen. “I suppose there is.”

Fen’Asha looked at the door.

“I…” began Cullen. “I have never unburdened myself of my history, Inquisitor. I have never shared the truth of what happened in Fereldan’s Circle.”

“You can tell me,” said Fen’Asha.

“But I cannot,” said Cullen. “Not without…”

“Without?”

“The Circle was taken by abominations,” said Cullen. “The Templars, my friends, were overwhelmed. I was held and tortured. They tried to take my mind and they succeeded in a manner I did not anticipate. I was no longer…myself. For years, fury blinded me. It still does…”

“You don’t seem angry,” said Fen’Asha.

“You don’t know,” said Cullen. “I am not proud of the man I have become. I have evolved…but…”

“There is still reluctance,” offered Fen’Asha.

“I can never be certain,” said Cullen. “As much as I might wish it, I can never be certain.” He stood and turned his back to her.

“I see,” she said.

“You asked me if Templar concerns would have kept me from my feelings for you,” Cullen continued. “And in that past, that is true.”

“And now?”

“And now,” said Cullen. “There is much to you, Inquisitor, and I have enjoyed our time together.”

Fen’Asha crossed her legs, anticipating the next words.

“But there are limitations to…me,” said Cullen. “You were right to say there is much history. Much history to overcome in order to afford you with what you have need of.”

“You don’t trust me,” said Fen’Asha.

“I do, Inquisitor,” said Cullen. “I do not trust me.”

The words were familiar, as though written on stone. They hung for a while and Fen’Asha heard them ringing.

“I should have died during the Blight or Kirkwall or Haven or…” Cullen said, finally turning around. “But I am here. My faith has kept me here.”

“Josephine and I…” began Fen’Asha, fidgeting. “We are planning to celebrate Satinalia…”

“Please, listen,” said Cullen. “You have become a beloved friend. I have no wish to dull that gain with my lack of capacity.”

“Cullen,” said Fen’Asha. “I…I understand. We were carried away by other forces...”

“Yes,” said Cullen with a slight cough. “It isn’t as though I have not enjoyed my entanglement with recklessness.”

Fen’Asha nodded and rose.

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” said Cullen.

“No. I should thank you, Cullen. I’m glad we’re... friends,” she smiled.

Cullen nodded at the Inquisitor as she took her leave, closing the door softly behind her.


	45. Pt.3 - Harillen: Satinalia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We don't have forever. Baby, daylight's wasting. You better kiss me before our time has run out. Nobody sees what we see, they're just hopelessly gazing. Baby, take me before they turn the lights out, before time is run out. Baby, love me lights out. In the darkest night I’ll search through the crowd. Your face is all that I see. I'll give you everything. Baby, love me lights out.  
> \- “XO” Beyoncé

“Oh, I am loving this,” Sera giggled, sitting on the corner of the table, kicking her feet. “All these nobles waiting on my beck and call, serving me drinks and those little wieners.”

“I simply do not know how you talked us into this, my dear,” sighed Vivienne as she picked up a platter of cheese and meats from the kitchen counter.

“Because you look good in that outfit, Viv,” said Sera, raising her wine glass.

“I look good in anything, darling,” said Vivienne with a flourish as she backed through the kitchen door and toward the sounds of boisterous laughter and the smells of liquor wafting in from around Skyhold.

“And you,” said Sera, turning to Fen’Asha. “No wonder they call you Inquisitits.”

“You’re the reason they call me that…” The Inquisitor sighed, retying the stays of her corset yet again. The knot seemed sturdy enough, yet somehow she found it repeatedly undone.

“Just leave it open,” said Sera, draining her wine glass.

“Oh sure,” said Fen’Asha with a shrug. “Like they need more incentive to squeeze my bottom.”

Sera held up her goblet and grinned. “Refill, servant,” she said with a chuckle.

“Of course, my lady,” said Fen’Asha with a bow. She topped off the elf’s glass with wine from the enormous fancy pitcher.

“Thank you, thank you,” said Sera smiling wide. She pulled her ornate mask down over her face and laughed noisily, making her way back to the festivities.

Fen’Asha sighed and adjusted herself under the tight corset. It seemed rather useless. Her cleavage was ample but if the knot stayed she could avoid exposure. If the knot stayed… She shook her head and balanced the large pitcher as she backed out of the kitchen.

She was glad to see so many people enjoying themselves, even if it meant giving them a full view of her assets. The mostly inebriated guests danced and drank in the main hall, with detonations of laughter and the clanging of glasses filling the air. Fen’Asha moved through the jumble of tables, filling up goblet this way and that. The pitcher became more manageable and she was more than grateful for the relief.

But the damn knot came loose and she nearly lost her limited composure when her bosom once again made a remarkable showing while she topped up a glass. She held her spare hand to her breasts, trying to tuck and cover where possible. The table of young men chortled and roared boisterously, toasting each other in honour of the sight.

Fen’Asha saw Cullen across the hall. He was clad as a serving boy and was clearing an enormous pile of plates from one of the tables. Their eyes met and she nodded with a grin. They were beloved friends, reckless once but no longer. She had thought of him as available, as near, as an option. And she had been foolish for it. She had been unfair.

But she couldn’t give him what he deserved. Ever. Her heart was in too many other places. It walked too many other lands and he was only…safe.

“We require more drink,” roared a voice nearby and a hand slapped Fen’Asha on the rear. There was jubilant laughter.

She turned to face her frisky accoster and laughed when she saw him.

It was Blackwall. The beard unmistakable under his ridiculous mask. “I am…sorry, Inquisitor,” he said immediately. “I did not know…”

“I am not the Inquisitor,” said Fen’Asha with a grin. “I shall prepare your drinks immediately, sir.” She delivered a curtsy.

Blackwall’s eyes darted to her chest, which had once again been mostly loosed from their restraints. “I…” he sputtered. “I believe I shall go sit down.”

“As you wish, sir,” said Fen’Asha. She made no effort to conceal herself.

There were eyes on her, as she knew, but she soon felt an unexpected heat as well. It sifted through the playfulness and wound its way to the back of her neck, flickering her with its warmth.

She looked around. Something had changed. The noise was the same, the dancing was the same. And yet in one of the corners lay a shadow. She moved toward it and gasped when she spotted the figure, a man in black clothing. In a wolf pelt, with six red eyes searing toward her.

It couldn’t be.

She marched toward him, placing the pitcher down on a nearby table. A few dancing men in their underthings glided in front of her suddenly and swept her up in their movement. Her pushes and shoves weren’t enough to free her from their bare-chested bacchanal and she was caught. She peered over to the corner and found it empty, with a torch now lighting the space.

Whatever or whoever was there was gone.

The men bounced up and down and grinded around her, their sweaty forms bumping into Fen’Asha. Arms pulled her this way and that, with each man wanting his own moment to dance and shake with the woman who normally called herself Inquisitor. They moved for her and her corset grew increasingly slack allowing her bosom to flirt with the possibility of exposure. She closed her eyes, tried not to turn six shades of red, grinned and laughed in the spirit of things.

When Fen’Asha had finally freed herself from the maze of men, she found herself in the kitchen again. Her chest heaved as she caught her breath and retied the corset.

She swept into the main hall again, refilled pitcher at the ready, and turned to the Inquisitor’s throne. Her former throne.

A dwarf slumped over the armrest, an enormous hat plunked on her head and a goblet dangling harmlessly from her hand. She wore the Inquisitor’s unwanted gown from the Winter Ball, the one with the shimmering white lace, and velvet black bodice.

She looked like a small child playing dress up in it. Josephine stubbornly refused to cut the skirt and it hung well beyond the dwarf’s stout legs. To complement the look, the Inquisitor had a mask with feathers bursting out of the sides, like she was some kind of distressed bird.

“Inquisitor,” said Fen’Asha as she approached. “Are you…alright?”

“Drinks,” the dwarf murmured.

“Are you sure?” asked Fen’Asha.

The dwarf rumbled and stirred to upright position, nearly losing the mask in the process. She belched.

Fen’Asha stifled a giggle.

“Are you questioning the…” began the dwarf after another belch, “the Inquisi…the Inquisi…the Inquisitor?”

“No, Inquisitor,” said Fen’Asha with a low bow that once again drew her breasts to the forefront.

“Then refill me,” said the dwarf. “Now.”

“Yes, Inquisitor,” said Fen’Asha as she moved closer and tipped more wine into the goblet.

The dwarf was holding it unsteadily and some of the red stuff spilled onto the floor, but that didn’t stop the christened Inquisitor from continuing to wave her hand for more wine.

And Fen’Asha kept pouring until the goblet was full, stopping finally when the red wine trickled over the edges.

“Did I tell you to stop?” snarled the dwarf. “I didn’t tell you to…” She hiccupped.

“Your goblet is full…”

“I shall decide when something is full, Inquisitor,” said the dwarf.

“You…are the Inquisitor,” said Fen’Asha.

“That’s what I said,” snapped the dwarf. “Now pour.”

Fen’Asha did as she was asked and more wine spilled onto the floor until there was a small pool at the base of the throne. Just when she’d decided to stop the ridiculousness again, she felt a tugging and the threads of her corset once more loosened. Her breasts tumbled forward but the dwarf didn’t notice. She was too busy waving for more wine.

Fen’Asha fixed herself quickly and turned around. Someone was…

She spotted the figure in the wolf pelt again, only this time he was sifting through the crowd. He was the only one wearing such a costume and she wondered why he didn’t seem more noticeable to the other guests, especially given the enormous wolf’s head with its glaring red eyes.

He turned to her and waved with a flourish.

She bolted from her spot near the Inquisitor, causing the dwarf to call out after her. But it didn’t matter. Fen’Asha barreled through the party, pushing guests aside this way and that as she tried to reach the wolf and his eyes.

“Oh goodness,” called Josephine as Fen’Asha bumped right into her, nearly dumping the too-tall stack of dishes the Ambassador was balancing.

Fen’Asha had no choice but to help steady the tower of finery before Josephine had a mess on her hands. By the time she turned around again, he was gone.

“I’m so sorry, Josephine,” said Fen’Asha. “It is quite a party…”

“Yes,” said Josephine. “It is something…”

Just then, Fen’Asha spotted a flurry of blackness again as the figure moved through an open doorway. She sprang after him and pursued his movements as he wove through to the garden. As she felt the night air on her skin, she shivered.

He was gone again.

But the garden was teeming with activity of a certain nature, with various groups warming themselves in creative ways. Fen’Asha moved through different groupings, spotting a group huddled close together in a corner with a...two, no, three Chantry sisters? She thought she saw Scout Harding, too.

For all the activity in the garden it was strangely quiet with only a few sighs, murmurs and periodic rustle of clothing betraying their actions.

Fen’Asha’s knot came undone, pouring her assets forth again. She took the que to give up the search. She turned only to spot him. She huffed, growing tired of the game, hoisted up her skirt and nearly ran toward him.

He didn’t move from his spot leaning against the castle wall. He cocked his head toward her and she gasped at his likeness. It couldn’t be.

He held out a goblet.

“I…I left the pitcher with the Inquisitor,” she said.

He shook his head.

An announcement rang out over the courtyard that it was time for the Inquisitor’s dance, but nobody in the garden seemed to care. They were too locked in their activities.

She ventured closer, longing to peer beneath the shadow to the Wolf within. He wore a dark, glimmering mask that caught the light nearby.

He reached an arm for her and held her close against the wall, mimicking the behavior of others around them.

She breathed heavily, her breasts challenging the remaining constraints of the loose corset, pressing against his form. She looked up at him but still couldn’t press behind the shadows, still couldn’t make out a face. She smelled him and he was familiar.

He breathed her in, traced the curve of her back, and he looked above her.

“Who…” breathed Fen’Asha.

He slackened his grip on her when he seemed to notice something.

“No,” she protested as he let her go.

“Inquisitor,” came a voice from behind. “There you are.”

Fen’Asha turned her head and saw Cassandra, bright red and huffing toward her.

“What are you doing out here?” said Cassandra, her eyes darted around. “You are…You are not leaving me alone with that mountain of dishes.”

Fen’Asha sighed as the Divine tugged at her arm, pulled her away from the shadowy corner in the whimsical garden. She turned to look at the Wolf again, at the figure that’d been holding her so close.

And, predictably, he was gone.

For all that she was missing, Fen’Asha didn’t mind spending time with Cassandra. There was a mountain of dishes resting on the kitchen counter and the Divine had created a sink full of soap and water to do the job. She held out a washrag and Fen’Asha took it with a small bow.

“I must admit that I’d wash dishes every day if it meant never having to go to an Orlesian ball again,” said Cassandra.

Fen’Asha nodded.

“And the chamber maids,” said Cassandra. “Have you ever seen them so happy?” She laughed.

Fen’Asha was racing through the dishes as best she could, flinging soap and water everywhere in the process. She was torn between listening to her friend and finding the Wolf again. Her loins were certainly stirring her in one direction over the other and her hands worked feverishly in light of the particular pull.

The door to the kitchen creaked open and a noblewoman wearing a plain frock nearly ran into the room.

Fen’Asha nodded at her as she slumped into a chair.

“This is ridiculous,” whined the aristocrat. “My feet are killing me. And the indignity.”

Cassandra cleared her throat.

“And to clean the bathroom,” said the noblewoman. “Do you know what people do in there?” She shrugged toward Fen’Asha, clearly expecting empathy.

“No, I simply have no idea,” feigned Fen’Asha with a nudge to Cassandra. They both laughed.

“Well I cannot stand it,” said the aristocrat. “You may be willing to suffer the shame, but I am not.”

“Did you at least finish your task, my lady?” asked Cassandra, her hands foam-covered.

“I did not,” said the noblewoman. “As soon as the _Inquisitor_ barged in with her…and that…”

Fen’Asha burst into laughter.

“And those noises,” continued the aristocrat. “I never in all my life. And the aroma. Dear Maker…”

“No, I assume your leavings smell of roses,” said Cassandra with a wave.

“I could…” ventured Fen’Asha, “finish the bathrooms if you insist. As long as you finish the dishes.”

“Inquisitor,” whispered Cassandra. “Do not leave me here with this woman. I am the Divine, but I…my patience wears already and we’ve only met.”

“You’ll be fine,” said Fen’Asha. “Think of it as practice.”

“Practice,” whispered Cassandra. “I…I fear I may drown her.”

Fen’Asha laughed. “We’re here to serve, Cassandra,” she said as she passed her washrag to the aristocrat.

“What is this?” asked the noblewoman, turning the rag around in her hand.

“If you’d just step over here, we’ll see if the water is warm enough…” Cassandra was saying as Fen’Asha raced from the kitchen and toward the facilities.

Fen’Asha made her way to the facilities off the main throne room, following the directions given to her by a drunken guardsman. The door opened with a squeak and the aroma forced itself on her immediately. She was glad to have her own cloistered lavatory and was also glad that she hadn’t given much thought to the location until this very moment.

“Inquisitor,” came a voice. A woman in a frayed chemise turned to her.

“Vivienne,” said Fen’Asha. “What are you doing here?”

“I was directed here by one of the nobility,” she said. “One of the former nobility. I am as surprised as you are, my dear.”

Fen’Asha vaguely wafted the place out with the door, swinging it this way and that and hoping to work up a breeze.

“I did have a thought, darling,” said Vivienne, moving toward her.

“Oh?”

“It just so happens that I know a certain enchantment…” said Vivienne.

Fen’Asha blinked.

“To assist us with our dilemma,” said Vivienne. She gestured to the row of holes, each one fixed on a brick dais, each one fenced by unspeakable horror. There were also tin washbasins on the other side of the room.

Fen’Asha continued to swing the door, but any improvement to the stench was imperceptible. Her mind drifted away from it, away from the display in front of her. She thought of the dusky corner, the trace of the Wolf’s fur, the intense red eyes.

Vivienne sighed. “I could clean this place up with the humble wave of a hand,” she said.

“Oh,” said Fen’Asha.

“What do you think?” said Vivienne.

“Well,” said Fen’Asha. “We did agree to be servants for the day. And our servants don’t have the luxury of magic.”

“So our capabilities should sentence us to… _this_?” asked Vivienne.

Fen’Asha shook her head. “It doesn’t seem fair,” she said. But she wanted to see the Wolf again, wanted to find him in the crowd.

“Fair?” said Vivienne. “What does fair have to do with it? I assure you this was the method in the Circle. We have work to do and we do it in the most effective way possible.”

Fen’Asha nodded. “Still…”

“Nobody will see us, darling,” said Vivienne. She waved around the room and it was empty for a change.

Fen’Asha sighed and closed the door, feeling the full burden of the smell immediately. “Do it,” she said.

Vivienne waved her arms swiftly and a purple smoke curled from her fingertips, swaying over the different holes and platforms and basins of the bathroom. The aroma was soon displaced by a sharp floral perfume and the Grand Enchanter stood self-importantly, looking splendid in her threadbare dress.

Fen’Asha nodded her support. “Not a word of this to anyone,” she said with a smirk and ducked into the main throne room again.

There was a small band playing a lively tune from next to the entryway and the room was full of swirling bodies attempting to dance along. Fires burned, torches glowed. The room was warm and full of colour, with wine still flowing and food weighted on silver platters.

A group of dancers took to the foreground, displaying their lithe forms against the contrast of the drunken throng. There was appreciation for their talents all the same, with pirouettes and spinning and turning taking to the air.

As Fen’Asha watched the display, she spotted him again through the warren of grinning faces and clapping hands. He was on the move, in and out of the shadows, in and out of the torchlight.

She moved with him, shadowing him on her side of the room until she reached the doorway to the front corridor and the crowd thinned out. To her breathless amazement, he crossed the floor to her.

He was sizing her up, making careful but determined movements. He paid no mind to the dancers or the music and brushed aside the musicians. Fen’Asha soon found herself alone with the mysterious figure in wolf’s clothing.

She knew what she wanted. She knew who she needed him to be. She embraced him.

And he kissed her, pressed her against the brick wall, engulfed her with his darkness and heat.


	46. Pt.3 - Harillen: Reverence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's your pleasure? Inside, outside. No one but me, sending sighs 'cross your back. Hidden treasures. Soft slides and smiles. Feel your will going slack. You're gonna crack now. Set it loose, it's coming back to you. Been spending my nights dreaming my every move. All those blue nights without your love, I've been too long with my imagination.  
> \- “My Sensual Mind” Anggun

She felt the room stop as their lips parted only to melt together again in molten heat.

The Wolf searched her form with his hands, touched her neck with his paws, watched her heaving chest with his eyes. He was firm with his movements, assured with his lips and he took her mouth with unspoken confidence.

She closed her eyes, as the kiss deepened with slithering tongues entwined. She explored the broadness of his back, his tense muscles, hard under the fur.

“There you are,” came a voice accompanied by a cool breeze.

Her eyes flittered open to find Dorian standing in front of her with a stack of trays. He was wearing a too-small serving boy uniform and had a hat plunked sideways on his head. He looked exhausted.

“What are you doing off in the corner here?” said Dorian. He looked behind her and watched as she pushed herself off the wall.

“I…”

“Have you been drinking?” said Dorian. “If you’re drinking, I’m drinking.”

“Did you see…?”

“Have _you_ seen Iron Bull?” said Dorian. “I think he’s taking this Satinalia thing a mite too seriously.” He looked around for a place to deposit his serving trays and decided on using a nearby table for a breather, stacking the platters on it and leaning against the wall. The band played on.

“There was…” sighed Fen’Asha. Her eyes scanned the room.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” said Dorian.

Fen’Asha blinked and cleared her throat. “I’m…fine,” she said.

“Well, I am not,” said Dorian. He was skimming the room now, trying to hoist his neck to see over the whirling aristocracy.

“What’s wrong?”

“Never give a Qunari power,” he said. “Even imaginary.” His eyes widened as he looked out over the crowd.

Fen’Asha followed his gaze and saw what he was dreading: Iron Bull was pushing through the dancers, his great horns festooned with the glittery sprinkle of trinkets and accessories. He was wearing a noble’s ceremonial dress, which was also too small for his massive form, and he stalked toward Dorian as he reached the other side of the bopping horde.

“ _Ebasit qalaba_ ,” he roared.

“What?” asked Fen’Asha.

Dorian rolled his eyes. “He’s calling you a…stupid cow.”

“Me?”

“Or me,” said Dorian with a shrug.

Iron Bull repeated the words noisily and lurched close to Dorian, draping a brawny arm around him and nearly dragging him to the ground. “This is…is… _saar-qamek_ , _venak hol_ ,” said the Qunari.

“He thinks he’s drinking poison,” said Dorian.

Fen’Asha covered her face and shook her head. She’d never seen Iron Bull this out of it. She’d seen him swallow entire casks of ale before and had known him to drown himself in nugswill that could slay druffalo by the dozen, but this was something else entirely.

Dorian was trying to free himself from Iron Bull’s iron grip, but he kept finding himself on the lower end and was soon lying half-under the Qunari.

The band took turns noticing and their song drifted in and out of tempo as the Qunari and the Vint started to roll around.

Fen’Asha wanted to recede through to the outside, wanted to ignore Dorian’s cries for help. But she grabbed for his outstretched arm and tried to tug him out from under Iron Bull, which only made the Qunari tighten his grip so that Fen’Asha was hauled onto the floor with the demented pile of muscle and his mortified Tevinter lover.

“ _Shanedan_ , _shanedan_ ,” Iron Bull was saying as he grappled with Dorian and tried to pull the poor mage’s short pants off.

“Alright,” said Dorian. “I didn’t want to have to do this, but…”

Fen’Asha grimaced as Iron Bull’s great arm swept over her and pinned her to the ground.

Dorian, meanwhile, worked his hands loose and began to pinch and tickle at Iron Bull’s shoulder. “I am sorry,” he said, his eyes looking over at Fen’Asha.

“What do you mean?”

“ _Ashkost kata_ ,” shouted Iron Bull at an unreasonable volume. He called out again and again, breaking the musicians’ attention in the process and causing all of the dancing nobility to turn to face the entanglement. His screams gave way to riotous, dreadful laughter as Iron Bull rolled off Dorian and Fen’Asha and proceeded to fold himself into a fetal position. He snickered continually, his horns grating the floor and knocking the various accessories off.

“He hates to be tickled,” said Dorian as he helped Fen’Asha to her feet.

“ _Vashedan_ ,” Iron Bull cursed.

“Will he be alright?” said Fen’Asha as she watched Dorian collect his platters from the table.

“Surely,” said the mage. “But when he finds me, he’ll seek his retribution.” He nodded politely and carried his platters through the crowd, darting off in the direction of the kitchen as Iron Bull’s laughter faded.

Fen’Asha watched the crowd, who was still staring at the Qunari and his waning laughing fit, and decided that she’d better make her escape as well. She cut through the gathering to the other side of the throne room, hoping to blend in far away from Iron Bull’s stony gaze.

She almost didn’t react when she spotted him again, a floating and sliding visage in black moving through the crowd on the other side of the room. Fen’Asha chased him anyway, charging toward him through the dancers and toward the door to the undercroft.

He vanished behind it and she followed him into darkness.

She heard the waterfall roaring and looked around. The space was empty, lit by the moon’s glow reflecting in ripples off the ice and rapid waterfall. Where had he…?

Before she could take another breath, he was clutching her from behind and wrapping his arms around her waist.

She responded to his touch and backed into him, warming to his familiar hands and softening in his grip.

She moaned as she felt his hands grope for her breasts, as she felt them brush against her silky exposed skin and tug away at the threads barely holding her form, he pulled the ridiculous corset off. She grinded against him, feeling his firmness.

His fingers twisted for her hair, unpinning her braid and allowing her hair to fall slack over her buttery shoulders.

The Wolf’s paws slumped over her shoulders, moving with his searching hands and rubbing her breasts. His breath was hot on her neck and his hands snaked lower and lower, reaching below the lip of her skirt to what lie beneath.

She held the rough padding of the paws against the soft flesh of her breasts, as his hands slinked down under her petticoat. She wanted him to tear at it, wanted him to rip it from her. She left the paws to assist him in the endeavor pushed her skirt and petticoat down into a crumpled mess of lace at their feet.

He prodded the damp confines of her smallclothes as the paws ridged the arch of her breasts and felt around their meridians, its claws loaning to her stiff nipples and pursing them faintly.

She moaned again, backed into him again, pivoted her hips, straining her ass around his audacious erection and feeling it pressed between her cheeks. She groaned noisily and backed him right up against the undercroft door, feeling it clatter as she grinded against him. She respired heavily, his hands pushing lower and lower into the crest of her humidity.

He pressed his resistance against her and pulling the hindrances down, out of the way, letting the small clothes fall to the icy floor, joining fabric and rumpled lace. With another smooth movement, he turned her around and pushed her against the undercroft door. He loosed his trousers with the clatter of brass. His hands fondled for her hindquarters, drew her cheeks apart.

She grimaced as she felt her full breasts press against the wood of the door, felt the emergence of his manhood as it pressed its skin against hers. She sighed as he entered, the surface of his channel working its way in inch by inch. She sensed the heat and gravity, wriggled against the ampleness, felt him bulky and vast inside. As familiar as his hands felt, he was more immense and rigorous then she could imagine, and she did all she could to keep her knees from buckling.

He was pumping her hard and pushing her, grinding her breasts against the door with every thrust. The paws groped her sides, pinning her in his essence as he continued driving and shoving his hips.

Every burst of pressure caused her to whimper until she bit her lip, grappling for stability against the door.

He removed himself, turning her around, he took her mouth in a firm searching kiss, gripped the back of her knees and lifted her up against the door. Breaking the kiss to reintroduce his resistance to her accepting succulence. Again his slow thrusts began building into potency, until he matched the elevation with his rigorous activities, satisfying her up to his enduring pouch with upward thrusts.

She grinded against him, clutching the top of his wolf’s head and watching the red eyes glimmer into hers. Entangled in the softness of the fur and wanting to pull at it, but something held her from it. She carried forward and budged her weight, wanting to match his movements but struggling with his size. She gave in again and let him hold the rhythm, holding on to his shoulders for dear life as he pummeled her with his magnitude.

The door clattered with their robust rhythm. She didn’t care. The Wolf was in her. The Wolf was all.

He built momentum the more she wailed and grasped against him. The more she squelched along the length of his member, the more he drove up with dominant shoves.

She tilted the balance when she erupted in a torrent of groans, her face buried in the fur and mind spinning. She felt the scrunching beneath as she wrapped and clutched and released his member at last. She felt the rise of fever and the blast of prickly perception as it coursed through, melting her blood, sustaining her midsection.

He felt the clench, forced himself all the harder, with potent thrusts that challenged her muscles.

She relaxed, allowed her legs to hang limp, watched the Wolf’s red eyes as he took the cue. She slipped him out of her.

Groping his form, watching his shadow, kneeling pressed against the door and guided him to her lips. Licking, tasting as he entered, as he compelled himself inside and watched her eyes widen with the bulk stretching the crooks of her mouth.

He pushed further, dipping the whole of his member. He pressed his palm on her brow and his paws brushed through her hair, lugging slightly when her mouth overwhelmed his engorged entity entirely and pulling harder when her throat closed around it.

She gulped. Her eyes moistened as she felt the force inside her gorge, challenging her breathing and pressing her head against the wood behind her. But she gripped his hips, kneaded his flesh, pulled him in. Grunted and accustomed herself, trying to manage his depth.

It was still so familiar. And yet…

He began to work up his movements, impelling his hips back and forth, driving into her mouth with lengthy, long thrusts.

She gagged, feeling the whole down her throat and tasting the salty gumminess. She reached for the shaft and tugged it for pity’s sake, jerking it before releasing it from her mouth, licking her lips.

She gazed up at him, eyes teary, hopeful he was happy with her efforts. Hopeful he was happy with her devotion.

It couldn’t be.

He descended to the floor, his paws groping, gripping her waist and towing her forward to lay atop him.

She found his mouth again.

He kissed her with authority, with need. He bit her lip. Nipped her chin. Lapped her neck.

She sighed, heart pounding, breath heavy, handled his engorged staff, aligned herself.

She moaned as she sank onto his towering member, feeling it slope deep within again. She plunged on to it and arched her body as it occupied her.

He bucked his hips as she rode his range. Clutched her as she took her pleasure, snarled with the effort, filled her again and again. He thrashed up into her movements, watching her breasts tumble and bound. Watching her mouth open and close, gasping and cooing.

“ _Fen’Harel_ _ar halam_ ,” she cursed reaching for him, entwining her fingers with his paws, heaved herself into his motion. She was full of him again, savoring as he pushed in, her mouth still dripped with expectation and lust.

He was moving with ferocity, his behind rising and falling against the hard stone floor. His eyes stared into hers, his fangs rose with his sneering and his gnashing. He was visceral, fucking her on the floor of the undercroft to the harmony of the roaring waterfall and laughter outside the door. He was divinity, trying her confines and jostling his vastness as far as it would go. He was man, sweltering and puffing and satiated by the pleasure of her.

She came again in a rush of fire, feeling her muscles narrow around his angle as he drew out slightly and allowed the contractions.

He looked up at her, red eyes and claws, and grinned as her face knotted in hideous, glorious expressions. He snarled when she did, growled when she did.

She lugged herself off his member, her dampness trembling, pink from the savagery of his fullness. She set over him, cradling herself between his legs, hauling her tired mouth back over his altar. She suckled, consuming him with wet tongue and soft lips.

And he released, gushing his gooey contrition into her waiting mouth. He caked her lips, squirting forcefully with white flooding clarity. He murmured, still wordless, and released torrent after torrent of his pasty surge.

She struggled to clamp it all in her mouth and it driveled from her lips, slobbered down her chin. She grinned as she used her fingers to scoop it up, to prevent it from oozing down between her breasts and further below. She licked, cleaned, primped for him. Watched him. Exhaled in wonder.

He cupped her cheek, grinned at her and stood.

“Wait…” she said.

He pulled on his trousers, buckled them up, opened the door, left. He didn’t look back.

“Who…” she breathed as the door closed tight.

It couldn’t be.

 

After sometime she composed herself, she staggered back to the party and stumbled toward the kitchen. Her legs weren’t interested in holding her upright, her thighs burned, her mouth throbbed. Her body felt broader, overwrought. She tucked herself into a chair near the kitchen table.

“There you are,” said Cassandra, turning from the sink.

“There I am,” breathed Fen’Asha.

“Was the lavatory that intolerable?” asked Cassandra.

“It was hard work,” said Fen’Asha with a sigh. “You can’t imagine…”

“Well,” said Cassandra. “I didn’t fare much better. That aristocrat could not have been more useless.”

Fen’Asha sighed again.

“Is something the matter, Inquisitor?” asked Cassandra.

Fen’Asha rubbed her thighs and did her best to sit upright. “No,” she said. She shook her head.

“I don’t believe you,” said Cassandra, wiping her soapy hands on a washrag.

“It’s nothing,” said Fen’Asha.

Just then, Sera burst into the kitchen with Dagna on her back. She spun around, carrying the dwarf in circles, and plopped the arcanist down safely in a chair near Fen’Asha.

“Oh,” said Sera. “So you’re here.”

“Something has happened,” said Cassandra.

“What happened?” asked Sera.

“Nothing happened,” said Fen’Asha.

“Something did,” confirmed Cassandra. “And she’s not telling.”

“Oh come on,” said Dagna. “Don’t be such a…don’t be such a…”

“Spoilsport?” asked Cassandra.

“Tit,” said Sera. “Don’t be such a tit.”

“Don’t be such a…” Dagna was saying again. She looked off in no particular direction.

“What happened?” said Sera. “Tell me, tell me, tell me.”

“Nothing,” said Fen’Asha.

Cassandra sighed. “We have ways of making you talk,” she said. She moved toward Fen’Asha.

“Did…did anyone see a…” ventured Fen’Asha. She looked around the room.

“Yes?” asked Cassandra, still inching closer.

Sera giggled.

“A…someone in a wolf costume?” asked Fen’Asha. She raised her eyebrows and covered her face.

“What?” asked Sera with an explosion of laughter.

“A wolf costume?” asked Cassandra.

“Nevermind,” grumbled Fen’Asha. “Just forget it.”

“No, seriously,” said Dagna. “A wolf costume? Why?”

“I don’t know,” said Fen’Asha. She groaned. “Just forget it.”

“Have you been drinking?” asked Cassandra.

“Why is everyone asking me that tonight?” mused Fen’Asha under her breath.

“No,” said Sera. “No. I would’ve noticed _that_.”

Fen’Asha nodded.

“I didn’t see anyone either,” said Cassandra.

“Okay,” said Fen’Asha. “Thanks.” She groaned again.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” asked Cassandra.

“You’re…looking for a wolf man?” asked Sera. “Because you’re…the wolf woman.” She stared straight ahead for a moment, then let out a guffaw that produced a belch all its own.

Dagna sputtered.

“Yes,” said Fen’Asha. “That’s it. I’m looking for a wolf man because I’m a wolf woman.” She pulled herself up.

“Wait, wait,” said Sera, nibbling on a piece of cake from a discarded plate on the table.

“What?” said Fen’Asha as she reached for the door.

Sera howled. Like a wolf. Loudly.

Fen’Asha rolled her eyes and made her way back into the throne room, leaving the Divine and the two goofs behind to their hilarious reverie.


	47. Pt.3 - Harillen: Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took the stars from my eyes and then I made a map and knew that somehow, I could find my way back. Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too. So I stayed in the darkness with you.  
> \- "Cosmic Love" Florence + The Machine

Fen’Asha woke with the sun burning her temples. It had been an overwhelming night, the finite point on a remarkable day that saw servants and nobles turned in disarray.

She rubbed her temples, tried to jog her memories. She was with the Wolf. She searched for him across the span of Skyhold, even pressed Sera and Dagna into her employ. He wasn’t found, no one had seen him, not even a hair turned up in the search.

Had she imagined it? Had she imagined the frenzy, the ferocity of his movements inside her? Was it possible?

She shook the thoughts from her head and dressed, carting herself downstairs and to Josephine.

“Good morning, Inquisitor,” said the Ambassador. “That was…quite the day.”

“Yes,” said Fen’Asha.

“And to think, in Antiva it lasts for an entire week,” said Josephine.

“I’ve been reading about that,” said Fen’Asha with a grin.

Josephine nodded. “And speaking of reading…” She slid a piece of paper across her desk.

It was a note from a Professor Bram Kenric from the University of Orlais. She grimaced, remembering her last interaction with someone from the place.

“He wishes for us to investigate the Frostback Basin,” said Josephine. “He believes there are findings there that could revolutionize the Inquisition.”

“Sounds like it’ll benefit him too,” said Fen’Asha.

“Well,” said Josephine. “We often make arrangements that are of mutual advantage.”

Fen’Asha nodded. “I’ll go myself,” she said.

“Scout Harding is ready,” said Josephine. “And Professor Kenric already has established himself at a camp.”

“So you’ve already made arrangements?” said Fen’Asha with a smirk.

Josephine nodded.

“And what of our friends. Is anyone else…” said Fen’Asha raising her eyebrows.

“Ah, I am sorry to say they all absconded once I mentioned the buckles were our lead,” said Josephine.

“The buckles?”

Josephine nodded again. “Professor Kenric will be able to explain better than I,” she said. “But the carriages are packed and Scout Harding awaits.”

Fen’Asha smiled, shook her head and set out for Harding, who was waiting on tenterhooks near the carriage. They rolled away from Skyhold and toward the Frostback Basin, with Harding going talking about dance class and how attendance was dismal.

The road was long and Fen’Asha hadn’t had time to pack any books, but she was able to doze off once Scout Harding took the opportunity to rest her eyes.

* * *

 

Fen’Asha sighed, wandering the springs with the twin wolves watching over her.

“You look beautiful this evening, Fen’Asha,” came a voice. It was the Dread Wolf and he was near.

She gulped, a strange noise escaping her throat. She was no longer certain he was confined to her dreams, no longer confident Fen’Harel was in _uthenera._

“You seem uneasy,” said the Dread Wolf, encircling her with his arms. The paws drifted.

She shook her head. “I am…um,” she said. “We…there was a celebration at Skyhold.”

“Ah,” said Fen’Harel.

“Satinalia,” she said. “The servants enjoyed it.”

The Dread Wolf nodded. “I am familiar with Satinalia,” he said. “A celebration for Zazikel, Satina…”

“It was for you,” she breathed.

The Dread Wolf grinned, rows of teeth in the dark. “I presume you won’t be fasting,” he said.

She shook her head. “They have taken so much from my people, usurped our culture…”

“It angers you,” said Fen’Harel.

“It frustrates me,” she said. “I wish only to honour you.”

He said nothing, slogged with her through the water.

“Did I…do I honour you?” she asked.

His arm slid below her waist. “There is somewhere you wish to go,” he said. He began to glide with her.

“I…”

“It’s your dream,” he said.

She closed her eyes. He knew. “The Titan…” she began. Anything to keep him here.

And she opened her eyes to shimmering underground light, a city built into stalactites, greenery, blue lyrium coursing from the heart. She walked across a balcony, feeling the height.

“I have seen much of this world,” Fen’Harel said. “Only the dwarves’ dreamless minds are lost to me.”

She recounted her battle with the Sha-Brytol, blood staining the bridge below. “Such unneeded killing,” she said.

“History is marked with such carnage,” said the Dread Wolf.

“One of the Titans has the Blight,” she said. “How does one destroy such a thing?”

Fen’Harel watched the lyrium. “Why do you suppose that is your battle?” he asked.

“I…don’t know.”

“You have your own concerns,” said Fen’Harel.

She nodded, taking him in, memories of the stranger’s hands shaping her form.

A smile curved Fen’Harel’s lips.

Fen’Asha blushed. “Were you at Skyhold? Or Haven?”

“I have been closer than you know,” said the Dread Wolf. His arms drew around her again, pulsing before the lyrium’s song.

“Why…”

“Be careful what you ask, Fen’Asha,” he said. “There are some answers bound to elude your understanding.”

She blinked.

“You are confused,” he said.

“I am…” she began. “I wish to serve.”

“I know this.”

“Whatever you require,” she breathed.

He smiled. “You should be cautious,” he said.

“I know my heart,” she said.

“I am assured of that,” said Fen’Harel. “But blind promises are the refuge of the desperate.”

She nodded. “You have only to ask.”

He pulled her close under his shadow.

She clung to him, holding him tight. Light, heat grew between them. She felt her will give in, her knees buckle there before the lyrium streams, there below the earth, below dreamless slumber.

“Fen’Asha,” he breathed. He leaned in close, breathed in her ear, “You are…”

“Inquisitor,” another voice came.

Fen’Harel looked up.

Fen’Asha shook her head, feeling jostled.

“Inquisitor, wake up,” the voice came again.

* * *

 

“Wake up,” said Scout Harding wiggling Fen’Asha’s shoulders.

“Harding…” the Inquisitor grumbled, squinting at the too bright dwarf.

Harding was pure sunshine as she explained that they had arrived at a hamlet famous for their nug stew. With the Frostback Basin quite a while away, the sleepy village was the last sign of civilization and Scout Harding insisted she not miss it.

Fen’Asha refrained from rebuking the innocent dwarf for pulling her from Fen’Harel’s clutches and unspoken words. She sighed as the dwarf led her from the carriage and showed her the landmark village, led her to the little shop with the enticing aromas. 

The nug stew was indeed delectable.

The journey passed quickly after that, as Scout Harding proved to be great company and there was enough wine to carry the trip. Drink turned to song, which caused Fen’Asha to secure a promise that nobody would speak of the trip as long as the Inquisition was still the Inquisition.

The camp spread out over the entrance of the Frostback Basin and Professor Kenric was the first to the carriages, greeting Fen’Asha and Scout Harding as soon as they disembarked.

“Wonderful to see you, wonderful to see you,” he said, buzzing around them.

“Wonderful to see you,” bowed Fen’Asha.

“As you know, I have many questions,” said Kenric as he followed the Inquisitor and Scout Harding to their quarters.

Fen’Asha nodded, entering the makeshift room and putting her pack down on the bed. Scout Harding followed suit and smiled. They were going to be roommates.

“What do you know about Inquisitor Ameridan, Inquisitor?” asked Kenric, placing himself in a chair.

“The last Inquisitor of the original Inquisition,” said Fen’Asha.

“So you’ve read the books,” said Kenric.

“Of course,” said Fen’Asha.

“We have found traces of Inquisitor Ameridan, Inquisitor,” continued Kenric. “Clues that are certainly not found in any books.”

“There are Avvar here,” warned Harding.

“Yes, yes,” bustled Kenric. “But there is so much more. My research assistant Colette awaits near Tevinter ruins. And there is an island of note…”

“An island?” asked Harding. “I don’t like the sounds of that.”

“The Avvar claim it belongs to the Lady of the Skies,” said Kenric. “The goddess of Korth’s domain, goddess of the dead.”

“Sounds cheery,” mused Fen’Asha.

“We can take a boat to the island,” said Kenric. “But we must first secure passage from Svarah Sun-Hair.”

“Who?” asked Fen’Asha.

“She is the Thane at Stone-Bear Hold,” said Scout Harding.

“Oh,” said Fen’Asha.

“Are you aware of the Jaws of Hakkon, Inquisitor?” asked Kenric.

Fen’Asha shook her head.

“They wish to conquer the lowlands,” continued the professor. “Brutes, really. Not at all like Sun-Hair’s clan.”

“That’s a relief,” said Fen’Asha.

Scout Harding smiled.

Kenric leaned forward. “Once you have secured passage from Svarah Sun-Hair and have spoken to Colette, there will be much to do.”

Fen’Asha and Scout Harding located Colette in the murk of the swamp. The Inquisitor was surprised to discover that she was an elf, one of the first elves to study at the University of Orlais. She was as excited as Kenric to be doing the work and was pleased to explain her findings to anyone and everyone who would listen.

“There is so much to consider,” said Colette. “There is glass. And an inscription, but not in Tevinter. It’s Avvar. Probably.”

Fen’Asha cocked her head.

“What does this mean?” asked Harding.

“It means there’s more here than Tevinter ruins,” said Colette. “Maybe Templars were here too.”

Colette’s information was taken back to camp, to Professor Kenric and he was intrigued with the possibilities. He began penning letters to anyone and everyone that would allow him access to information, from the dwarves of Orzammar to the great keepers of records across Thedas. He was particularly fixated on the Chantry given Ameridan’s proximity to its creation.

“You are aware of his history, then?” he said, as he prepared another batch of letters for sending.

Fen’Asha sighed and sat up from her comfortable position on her not-so-comfortable bed.

“We know he was a dragon hunter, we know he knew the first ruler of the Orlesian Empire,” said Kenric. “And we know Emperor Drakon searched for him after the Inquisition split into the Templars and the Seekers. But the truth is far more fascinating.”

“What do you mean?” asked Fen’Asha.

“He had friends, interesting friends,” said Kenric. “We learned that he loved an elven mage, Telana. We know he was friends with dwarves and even Templars. And there is even talk of himself holding counsel with a spirit. Without fear.”

Fen’Asha nodded. She seemed to have a lot in common with this Ameridan.

“Inquisitor,” said Kenric as though he just realized something. “I wish for you to assist me in furthering this letter to Orzammar. I have asked for access to the Shaperate before, but to no avail. Perhaps you could use the weight of the Inquisition to push things along…”

“I shall ensure Josephine receives word,” said Fen’Asha. “Maybe there are some favours we could make use of.”

Time passed slowly in the Frostback Basin, with ongoing negotiations with the Avvar driving Fen’Asha closer and closer to meeting with Svarah Sun-Hair. There was word of a missing bear, Storvacker, and the Inquisitor was tasked with locating the beast. She wandered the Basin with Harding and a small cluster of guards, looking for the beast but without success.

With another day gone, she found herself awaiting sleep. Scout Harding had already drifted in her nearby bed, cutting loud snores into the night.

Fen’Asha closed her eyes again and sighed.

* * *

 

“You seek Ameridan,” drifted the Dread Wolf’s unmistakable tone.

She opened her eyes, finding herself in the swamp where she’d discovered Colette. Thick mist gathered and Fen’Harel was walking behind her, eyes glimmering in the dark like six crimson torches.

“Tell me,” he said. “What is it you wish to find?”

“I don’t know,” said Fen’Asha. “There are many mysteries.”

“There are,” said Fen’Harel. “And you will find many more before your time here is through.”

She turned to face him and raised her eyebrows. “Do tell.”

Fen’Harel smiled, rows of teeth shimmering. “You will find Ameridan most fascinating.”

“You know something,” she said, stepping toward him with her hands behind her back. She pivoted her hips.

“They have treated our history without care,” said Fen’Harel. “With disdain. You are by now familiar with his elven lover Telana, purged from antiquity for fear that it would prove embarrassing for the Chantry, for Tevinter, for everyone.”

Fen’Asha nodded.

“But you are not aware that Ameridan himself is an elf,” he said.

Her eyes widened. “No…”

Fen’Harel nodded. “Professor Kenric will make the discovery soon enough,” he said. “He is on the correct path.”

Fen’Asha shook her head. “And they have disregarded it, concealed him…”

“He loved the Maker,” said Fen’Harel. “And he loved the elven pantheon. To those who would betray his legacy, he was problematic.”

“Is that how history will remember me?” said Fen’Asha.

“History is penned by the victors,” he said. “Or those unpleasant enough to seize the illusion of triumph for themselves.”

She exhaled.

“There is much blood in this history, Fen’Asha,” said the Dread Wolf. “Much treachery.”

She couldn’t help but think of her clan, destroyed and left in heaps. The killers apologized. Said they’d make up for it. And she blamed herself. She still did. Like a good little knife ear.

He pulled her close, sensing her shuddering build. He was warm to the touch again, his fur dipping into the waters of the swamp, eyes piercing through the gloom, breath calm against the flesh of her neck.

“I feel nothing but anger,” she said at last. “And it frightens me…”

Fen’Harel held her tighter.

“I…” she sighed. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You do not give yourself enough credit,” said Fen’Harel. “You must trust yourself.”

“How?”

“You know the way,” said the Dread Wolf. “For now, you must…”

She pulled herself into him, not wanting him to drift.

“Wake up.”

  



	48. Pt.3 - Harillen: Satiated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the truth just ain't enough. Or is it too much in times like this? Let's throw the truth away. We'll find it in this kiss. In your skin upon my skin. In the beating of our hearts. May the living let us in before the dead tear us apart. We'll let blood build a bridge over mountains draped in stars. I'll meet you on the ridge between these worlds apart.  
> \- “Worlds Apart” Bruce Springsteen

Svarah Sun-Hair Janesdotten sat bundled on her throne, finally ready to talk. Negotiations had proven complex, but the Thane of the impressive Stone-Bear Hold had her reasons for hesitation. Relations were rocky, to put it mildly, with the Avvar warrior Gurd Harofsen and his Jaws of Hakkon. These aggressive followers of Hakkon Wintersbreath, the supposed Lord of Winter, gave Svarah more than her share of headaches.

“You wish passage to the Lady’s Rest, then,” said Svarah Sun-Hair.

Fen’Asha nodded.

“Your forces have paid us much regard and you have returned our Hold Beast,” said the Thane. “And it appears the Hakkonites are responsible.”

Fen’Asha nodded again. She didn’t know much about this particular affair.

Svarah sighed.

“Will you help us?” asked Fen’Asha.

Svarah nodded. “Speak with Arvid. He will grant use of the boat for the Lady’s Rest. But be careful.”

“Thank you,” said Fen’Asha.

“You are a mage,” observed Svarah Sun-Hair.

“Yes.”

“We have heard much of your mages,” she said with a smirk. “Our mages, they do not share your apprehensions.”

“Apprehensions?” asked Fen’Asha.

Svarah shifted. “Our mages are…merged with the spirits from the very beginning,” she said. “The spirits are teachers and the mages do not fear them. They do not fear such trivialities as possession or so-called abominations.”

Fen’Asha nodded. “Perhaps there is wisdom in that.”

“Perhaps?” said Svarah with a chuckle. “There is only one way for us. We seek them in battle and in love. They live among us, in our holds, in our lands. And the Lady in the Skies takes the dead to their people once more.”

“Your beliefs are important…” said Fen’Asha.

“Our beliefs are everything,” said Svarah. “They are the air we breathe, the water, the blood.”

“We seek to control,” said Fen’Asha.

“You fear,” said Svarah.

“Yes…”

“You will learn much,” said Svarah. “See Arvid.” She waved her hand.

Professor Kenric was more than pleased to learn of Fen’Asha’s experiences with Svarah Sun-Hair and the Lady’s Rest. She poured wine and told him the story several times, watching him feverishly take notes at his desk. 

“You say there were spirits on the island?” he asked.

“Many,” she said. “I wish my companions could have seen it, experienced it…” 

“And you heard the voice of Telana,” said Kenric. 

“Yes,” said Fen’Asha. “Her last words, I believe. Something about blood and Ameridan. And sleep.” 

“Very interesting,” said Kenric, scribbling madly. 

At that moment, Scout Harding entered. “Inquisitor,” she said. “We have news.” 

“What is it?” 

“The Jaws of Hakkon are attempting to call forth…Hakkon Wintersbreath,” said Harding. She exhaled. 

“My, my,” said Kenric, putting his quill down. “That is most fascinating.” 

“Do you know where they are?” asked Fen’Asha. 

“Of course,” said Harding with a slight grin. “That’s the one thing we know for certain. The Hakkonites gather at the Old Temple.” 

“Fascinating,” beamed Kenric. “But there is a barrier, is there not?” 

“There is not,” said Harding. “We have disabled the wards with the help of the augur of Stone-Bear Hold. 

Fen’Asha shook her head and smiled. “You’ve been busy,” she said. 

“Svarah Sun-Hair says her warriors will be ready to assault the Temple,” continued Harding. “With the wards down and the barrier removed, we have only ice magic to worry about. And the Hakkonites. And whatever they’re keeping in there.” 

Fen’Asha nodded. 

“We have some time,” said Harding. “Try to get some rest.” 

* * *

 

The Dread Wolf was leaning against his altar when she walked up the steps and crossed the bridge. “You heard many things on the island,” he said. “Many voices.” 

Fen’Asha nodded. “I heard Telana,” she said. “She called Ameridan  _Vhenan_.” 

“Yes,” said Fen’Harel. “They shared a deep affection for one another. ‘Of love's denial and secrets borne, from parted lips, the words at last are spoken.’” 

“That’s beautiful,” said Fen’Asha, drawing nearer. 

“It’s from a poetic work,” said Fen’Harel. “But Chantry scholars insisted that its words had nothing to do with Ameridan. ‘Soft Fade-touched light, in dream-lit tones, falls dark.’” He waved his hand. “There was no way they could allow the Inquisitor to be in love with a mage.” 

“And now the Inquisitor is a mage,” said Fen’Asha. 

“Do not think they are contented by it,” said the Dread Wolf. 

“I know.” 

“And some rather colourful rumours suggest it was Ameridan’s lack of modesty that cost him his position as Inquisitor,” said Fen’Harel. “The Chantry required celibacy…” 

“That’s another strike against me,” shrugged Fen’Asha. 

“Indeed.” 

“There is something humbling in knowing that I too will vanish from history’s record,” said Fen’Asha. 

“That is the fate of most rebels,” said Fen’Harel. 

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” said Fen’Asha. “There is so much fear in the world…” 

“Indeed, Fen’Asha.” 

“Yet not all are bound by such things…” said the Inquisitor. “The Avvar have their traditions. They do not fear the spirit realm, the Fade.” 

“That is true,” said Fen’Harel. 

“It’s…beautiful in a way.” 

“The Avvar are ancient, complicated,” said Fen’Harel. “They fought Tevinter. They’ve learned the value of impermanence, a lesson many could make use of. Everything in their world is temporal.” 

“But they still worship the old gods,” said Fen’Asha. 

“Their gods live in all things,” said the Dread Wolf. 

“And their gods give them strength,” said Fen’Asha. 

Fen’Harel reached for her, pulled her close. “Is this what you wish for? Do you believe, like the Avvars, that your god has kept you strong, safe?” 

“I feel…” 

“Yes?” he brushed her hair, touch lingering on her neck. 

“I feel you are a part of me,” she said. “I…I love you.” 

“I see…” 

She blushed. 

“Do you know what the spirits see when they look at you?” said the Dread Wolf. 

She shook her head. 

“You blaze like fire,” he said. “The mark, in particular.” 

She held up her hand, held up the Anchor. 

He cradled it, held her palm open in his hand. The Anchor sizzled. “It is bright…like the moon.” He kissed her palm. 

She inhaled. 

“And you,” he said, clutching her hand to his chest. “You burn bright as the sun.” He pulled her closer still, engulfing her in a tender kiss that rippled the ground with emerald lightning. He wrapped his arms around her. 

She wanted him. Oh, how she wanted him. He was everything to her in that moment, in the fire. He was Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf, the Roamer of the Beyond, Destroyer of Dreams, Bringer of Nightmares. And she was just Fen’Asha, the Inquisitor, the Wolf Woman, Inquisitits, Burner of Cookies, Collector of Elfroot and Elfroot-related Accessories. 

“I am…” said Fen’Harel. 

“How can this be happening?” she asked. Her breath failed her as his kisses moved from her jaw to her neck to her chest. 

He nuzzled her, held her. “It cannot…” he said. “But…”

She exhaled. Torn between a question and the trail of fire left by his kisses. They traveled back up her neck, to her cheek, to her nose. Was that a flash of blue in his eyes?

“ _Ar lath ma_ ,” he whispered cupping her face, guiding her lips to his so he could drank the light from her mouth. Entwined in a molten embrace he burned his essence into hers, burned until they were indistinguishable and she again knew what it meant to be home.

* * *

 

Fen’Asha woke to the knowledge that he hadn’t forced her way out of her dream that time. He hadn’t told her to wake up. But he had merged with her. He had told her… 

“ _Ar lath ma_ ,” she breathed. Her skin tingled, hot to touch, as if he still filled her somehow.

The sun poured through the slats in the wood of her makeshift quarters and she stretched, feeling one with the light, she smiled. She was still smiling when Scout Harding entered with maps and preparations for the assault on the Old Temple 

And she was still smiling hours later when she met with Svarah Sun-Hair’s Avvars before the mouth of the Temple. The Avvars took to the walls around the gate, climbing with immense speed. Moments later, the great gate wrenched open with a ghastly noise and the Inquisition and Avvars took the inside of the Temple. 

Fen’Asha stood side by side with Scout Harding, who clasped her bow and began firing arrows at the approaching Hakkonites. The Inquisitor whirled her staff, dispatching groups of bruisers as they poured out of various caverns and alcoves. Ice snaked around pillars and coated the ground, collecting in small crystal clusters. 

The paths gave way to an altar and Fen’Asha approached carefully, watching the silver energy spiral from the ground to a massive crystallized dragon. 

“It is Hakkon,” said Svarah Sun-Hair. “They have put his spirit into that…” 

The ground shuddered beneath the altar and the energy built before she saw him kneeling in the midst of the stone. He was holding the light, pulsing the energy toward the dragon as it wound back to him. He looked to have suspended it where it remained. He rose his head. 

“It cannot be,” said Svarah. 

“Inquisitor,” said the figure on the altar. The elf. 

“Who…” asked Fen’Asha, mind swirling. 

“I am Ameridan,” said the elf. 

Fen’Asha exhaled, felt the ground shudder again. 

“ _Andaran atish’an_ ,” he said, bowing his head. “You are an elf.” 

“ _You_  are an elf,” said Fen’Asha. “I am…” 

“History has forgotten much,” said Ameridan with a sigh. 

Fen’Asha nodded. 

“I suppose you are wondering why I am here,” said Ameridan, a slight smile curving across his lips. 

“You could say that,” said Scout Harding. 

“The Avvar summoned Hakkon during the Second Blight,” he said. “He came in this form.” He gestured toward the dragon. 

Svarah Sun-Hair shook her head. “You have been sealing it…for…” 

“Hundreds of years,” said Ameridan. “And now the Hakkonites have come for their god again.” He shook his head. 

“Fools,” said Svarah. 

“The past is marked by such folly,” said Ameridan. “Tell me, Inquisitor. What of the Dales?” 

“Drakon’s son destroyed the Dales,” said Fen’Asha, looking down. “The Exalted March…” 

Ameridan sighed. “I see…” 

Fen’Asha brimmed with questions. She wanted to ask him how he was not bursting with hatred, why he was holding the dragon, why he didn’t simply let the tides of hell devour the awful world and everything in it. She watched him, watched the sadness well up within him, readied herself for its inevitable conversion to anger. He was her predecessor, an elf unheeded by history and yet still serving as a hero after hundreds and hundreds of years. 

“And what of Telana?” he asked after a moment. 

“She…I heard her voice,” said Fen’Asha. “ _Ir abelas_.” 

Ameridan shook his head. “ _Ma melava halani_ , Inquisitor. It is enough. The world takes much.” 

Fen’Asha nodded. 

“You must find gladness where you can, before the shadows steal it,” said Ameridan. “That is what Telana was for me. History may doom the rest.” 

“History has taken much from our people,” said Fen’Asha, stepping forward. She knew her words were impulsive in front of the others, but she persisted. 

“I had hoped to help,” said Ameridan. “I had hoped to unify. The elves…there is no gain in division against the evils of this world.” 

“But they have neglected your memory,” Fen’Asha insisted. “They disremember Telana, they are ashamed of you. Ashamed of  _us_ …” 

“ _Tel garas solasan_ …” said Ameridan, shaking his head. “You cannot do good for the honour and glory. You must do good because it is good.” 

Pride. 

“I have been bound in time for too long to give much mind to such things,” continued Ameridan. “As unkind as history’s authors can be…” He winced suddenly, a flare of energy pushing from the dragon to his side. He clutched at it and wrenched himself to look up again. 

“It is breaking free,” said Svarah. 

“They have taken much,” said Ameridan as another bolt of energy erupted from the dragon. 

“The Hakkonites were here…” said Svarah. 

“Yes,” said Ameridan. 

“They stalled us,” said Svarah, shaking her head. 

“They failed,” said Ameridan with a weak grin. “The one called Gurd Harofsen is no more thanks to the folly of his pride.” He looked at Fen’Asha. 

“The magic was too much for him…” said Svarah. “It is as the augur said.” 

Ameridan nodded. “But he has weakened the bindings to the point of...” He groaned, another great flash of light forging its way toward him. It struck and he hung his head, exhusted. 

“Release it,” said Fen’Asha. 

Scout Harding glared at her. 

“ _Halam'shivanas_ ,” said Ameridan. “There may not be time, regardless of desire. I am losing the binding.” 

Fen’Asha gritted her teeth as shards of energy rippled into Ameridan. “Release it,” she repeated. “I’ve already killed one god.” 

Ameridan shouted as the bindings ripped loose. “ _Ir abelas_ ,” he said. 

“ _Dareth shiral_ ,” cried Fen’Asha as the last of the bindings fell and the great dragon rumbled to life. 

The beast screeched and rattled in place before hovering with massive strokes of its wings, generating unbearable wind in the cavern below. Ameridan collapsed on the altar, his form fading before Fen’Asha as the massive creature rose higher and higher. 

“We must finish it,” said Svarah. 

Scout Harding aimed her bow and smiled. 

Fen’Asha watched Ameridan’s waning form, watched him turn to nothing. He was lost again, to history, to duty, to goodness. She clenched her teeth and mounted the altar, focusing her staff on the roaring, snapping dragon. She closed her eyes. 

* * *

 

“You are becoming quite the dragon slayer,” said Fen’Harel with a wide grin. 

Fen’Asha nodded. “ _Halam'shivanas_.” 

The Dread Wolf cocked his head, pulling her in, his hands on her hips, his body swaying with her. A dance.

“He was just left to nothing,” she said. “Satisfied with doing his duty. He wanted to do more…his last words were to tell us that he was sorry.” 

“He did not want to be Inquisitor,” said Fen’Harel. “But when Drakon asked him, he took it. It was his burden.” 

Fen’Asha nodded. 

“We should probably fear any Inquisitor who wants to be Inquisitor,” said Fen’Harel. 

“That leaves me in the clear,” sighed Fen’Asha. 

“The Inquisition chose you,” said Fen’Harel. “And you always had your doubts.” 

“Yes,” she said. “I still do. Even after all that has happened.” 

The Dread Wolf held her, moving across the stone near his altar, following the rhythm in the ripples, the symphony in the steam. Her skin sang under his touch.

“Drakon had faith in Ameridan,” said Fen’Asha. “And he found support in the hearts of his friends, his companions.” 

Fen’Harel nodded. 

“And I have…” she began, burying her hands under his fur. “I have many blessings.” 

“You do,” said the Dread Wolf, pulling her closer. “You will require them in the time to come.” 

Fen’Asha smiled, gazed into his red eyes, wondered if the eyes underneath were really blue. “There are so many mysteries to the world,” she said.

“And many complications,” said Fen’Harel. His grip around her waist tight before slipping somewhat. 

“Complications?” she whispered, pulling him closer, resting her head on his shoulder. 

“Many tales, many lies, many exaggerations,” said Fen’Harel. 

Fen’Asha nodded. 

“There is a clan once of the Frostback Mountains,” said Fen’Harel, stroking her hair. “The Sabrae. They were set upon by Avvar. Marethari Talas took them to the lowlands, near Fereldan’s Brecilian Forest and then beyond. She was always moving, always running, always plagued by rumours. Marethari kept the Sabrae safe, but she could do nothing against the rumours of demon elves and other such things. There was a demon in the end, but even those matters are distorted by the caretakers of antiquity.” 

“Marethari sounds wise,” said Fen’Asha, enjoying the reverberation of his voice, his heartbeat.

“She was,” said Fen’Harel. “She died in service of her people, just like Ameridan and just like others. And history’s remains will merely make mention of demons and  _arulin'holm_  and blood magic. They cling to dark tales of the people, Fen’Asha.” His grip loosened.

Fen’Asha looked to him, nodded. 

“For all the sacrifices made by Ameridan and Marethari and even you, your own memories will be taken from you,” Fen’Harel sneered. He released Fen’Asha from the dance. 

“Wait…” she breathed. 

“There is much to do,” he stepped back, shaking his head. “You and I…” 

“Don’t go,” she advanced. 

He stepped back. “Wake up,” he said. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I kinda can't believe how fast this went by. We're almost done! (*ﾟﾛﾟ)  
> Honest, I could probably fiddle with this silly story forever, but eh...gotta let it be.  
> Just wanna say the Trespasser content begins from here on out. So unless you're in-the-know or want it all spoiled, then proceed...Otherwise stop. Stop here!  
> Mmmmk. ໒(◕ヮ◕)〜⊹


	49. Pt.3 - Harillen: Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the days, the golden days when everybody knew what they wanted, it ain't here today. Through the times of lasting love when parents talked of things tried and tested. It don't feel the same. Dreams and belief have gone. Time, life itself goes on.  
> \- "Half Day Closing" Portishead

Fen’Asha was more than pleased to be back at Skyhold, but Josephine was fretting. 

“You have returned just in time,” said the Ambassador, catching the Inquisitor as she stepped out of the carriage. “We must prepare you for what is to come.” 

“It’s nice to be back,” said Fen’Asha with a sigh. 

“Your enemies have been colluding against you,” said Josephine. “Your work over the past years has done little to discourage their lust for power. Your reputation is…shall we say, dubious.” 

“So what’s the plan?” 

“We must head for the Winter Palace immediately,” said Josephine. “Divine Victoria calls the Exalted Council.” 

“The Exalted Council?” 

“I will explain on the way,” said Josephine, urging Fen’Asha along. 

The Inquisitor turned around and climbed right back up into the carriage with a sigh. She nudged Scout Harding, who’d only just awoken, and told her of the next journey. The dwarf sighed and resigned herself for another nap. 

“Orlais seeks to control the Inquisition,” said Josephine. “And Fereldan wants it disbanded.” 

Fen’Asha nodded. 

“Divine Victoria calls the Exalted Council as a way to determine our fate,” said Josephine. “She has done her best to assuage the concerns of the nobility. It has been years since the defeat of Corypheus and time has changed things.” 

Fen’Asha closed her eyes. Had it been that long? She had kept herself occupied, continued to serve the Inquisition, continued to lead, continued to follow. 

“We need for you to speak with Teagan Guerrin, the Fereldan ambassador,” continued Josephine. “And Cyril de Montfort, the representative from Orlais.” 

“Terrific,” said Fen’Asha. 

“Cyril will want to transform the Inquisition into a vassal of Orlais,” said Josephine. “A body to do their bidding, so to speak. And Teagan, the Bann of Rainesfere, wishes to dismantle it entirely.” 

“I understand,” said Fen’Asha. She felt her hand, warm to the touch. It shimmered. 

“The good news is that Teagan is a fan of Varric’s,” continued Josephine. 

Fen’Asha smiled. 

“Your companions will be at the Winter Palace,” said Josephine, finally breaking into a sense of calm. “But we must be on our best behaviour. The very fate of the Inquisition depends on it.” 

The rest of the journey passed quickly, with Fen’Asha excited to see her friends and anxious about the fate of the Inquisition. She had never intended it to operate in service of the likes of Orlais, favoured closure. But she couldn’t shake the value of her legacy, couldn’t deny that she wanted to be remembered for who and what she was. She did not want to fall to the same fate of Ameridan, but perhaps that was out of her hands after all. 

Divine Victoria was the first to greet Fen’Asha when she arrived at the familiar Winter Palace. She bowed her head, looking radiant. 

“Divine Victoria,” said Fen’Asha. 

“Inquisitor,” said Divine Victoria. 

The Divine took Fen’Asha’s arm and led her away from the carriage, walking her into the Winter Palace. “I am supposed to be impartial as a representative of the Chantry,” she said. “But impartiality is beyond me. I will always be your friend, Inquisitor. And I will hardly ignore the fate of the Inquisition that I began.” 

“Yet you seem troubled,” said Fen’Asha. 

“I grow indifferent to the concerns of the Chantry,” said the Divine in a low voice. She looked around. 

“Is there something I can do?” whispered Fen’Asha. 

“Get me a sword,” she said. “And something to hit with it.” She guided Fen’Asha through the courtyard and toward the extravagant guest quarters.

“Memories…” said the Inquisitor. She wondered if the servant blood still stained the rugs. She thought of Solas, violence and sex permeating her recollections of the Winter Palace. 

“Yes,” said the Divine with a faraway look. “There are many memories, most of which are fonder than the everlasting siege of common complaints and trivialities and idiocies of those picking through the minutiae of Thedas’ distant corners. There is no end to those who would alter me for their own ends, who would change my hair, change my very presence.” 

“The hat,” said Fen’Asha with a nudge. “Was that their idea, too?” 

“The hat is the refuge by which I can finally find myself,” said the Divine with a sigh. “Thank the Maker for the hat.” 

“I never thought I would hear you say that,” the Inquisitor said. 

“Regardless, it is good to see you,” said the Divine with a smile. 

“What can you tell me of the Council?” said Fen’Asha. She opened the door to her room and caught the aroma of flowers, an arrangement sitting on an ornate table next to an ornate bed. 

“They are terrified of you,” said the Divine. 

“Why?” asked Fen’Asha, sitting on the edge of the bed, swinging her legs. 

“It is your power,” said the Divine. “There is no longer a hole in the sky to justify its existence. Or yours.” 

“I can hardly blame them,” said Fen’Asha, turning the mark. 

“Do not allow them to hear that,” said the Divine. “They will smell the blood.” 

“By the sounds of things, they already have.” 

The Divine stood in the doorway and crossed her arms. “Something is different about you.” 

Fen’Asha raised an eyebrow. 

“Have you located Solas?” 

The Inquisitor shook her head. 

“I am sorry,” said Divine Victoria. “I should not have asked.” 

Fen’Asha shook her head. “It’s fine.” 

Divine Victoria sighed. “I must take my leave, Inquisitor. Rest well before the Council tomorrow.” 

Fen’Asha nodded. “It is lovely to see you, Cassandra.” 

The Divine bowed just in time to see Sera swaying her way down the hallway. 

“Cassandra,” said Sera. “That hat is the tits.” She laughed and burst through the doorway, grinning at Fen’Asha. 

“Sera,” said Fen’Asha, standing for a hug. 

“Inquisitits,” said Sera throwing her arms around the Inquisitor. 

The Divine slowly receded from the room without a sound. 

“I got your letters. Was supposed to be a boring research project. I can’t believe I missed out on killing an Avvar god,” Sera grinned.

“Can’t believe we’re back here again,” said Fen’Asha.   

“They’re scared of you,” giggled Sera. 

“So they say.” 

“Who could be scared of you?” asked Sera. 

“A good question,” said Fen’Asha sniffing the flowers.

“I’m not, right?” said Sera. “But look, there is something I wanted to ask you. It’s stupid, so I won’t ask you. But I was thinking about it just now and it didn’t seem so stupid until the moment I thought about it again.” 

“What is it, Sera?” 

“The Jennies,” said Sera. “It’s…there’s something missing. And I’m different when I’m around you, more myself than I am when I’m not around you. Right? Like you bring out a side of me, a side of me I like. Not the cheeky side nobody understands but the other side that makes the cheeky side make sense.” 

“I see…” said Fen’Asha. 

“People don’t get me,” said Sera. “It’s the voice. Or the hair. Or just the disrespect. I’m too clever or something.” She shrugged. 

“That’s probably it,” said Fen’Asha with a smile. 

“Point is, I want you,” said Sera. 

“Oh?” 

“To join me,” continued Sera. “Not in any way that’s uncomfortable, but in a way that’s…comfortable.” 

Fen’Asha raised her eyebrows. 

“I want you to help me help people,” said Sera. “Join the Jennies. Do stuff. Do things. Whatever. Like I said, it’s stupid.” 

“It’s not stupid,” said Fen’Asha. “And I’d love to.” 

“Yeah,” said Sera. “I knew it. I knew you would just throw me out into the cold. Stupid haircut-having elf like me…” 

“I said I would love to,” said Fen’Asha. She took Sera by the hands. 

Sera’s eyes widened and she realized what had been said, finally. She stood and spun around the room, dragging the Inquisitor about the room in a disturbing dance that ended when they knocked into the table and sent the flowers crashing to the ground. 

“Shit,” said Fen’Asha observing the broken glass and dribbling water.

“We should…find the kitchen,” said Sera. 

“Are you looking for trouble already?” 

Sera winked and grabbed Fen’Asha by the wrists, tugging her out of the room and down the hall. 

“Where are you two headed?” came a voice. 

Fen’Asha turned to see Blackwall sauntering up the hall. 

“Hey Beardface,” said Sera, racing up to Blackwall for another of her famous wild hugs. 

“It’s good to see you, Blackwall,” said Fen’Asha with a nod. 

“I am going by Thom Rainier now, Inquisitor,” he said. He bowed slightly, pulling Sera’s arms from around his neck. 

“Mr. Rainier,” said Fen’Asha. 

“Fancy,” said Sera. “Blackwall got too dreary for you?” 

“In a matter of speaking,” he said. “Thom Rainier is who I am.” 

“Understood,” said Fen’Asha. 

“We’re going to the kitchen,” said Sera. “You’re coming with.” 

“Understood,” said Rainier. He joined the ladies as they strolled. 

The kitchen was a remarkably sprawling room with rows and rows of stoves and counters and shelves. It was much larger than the kitchen from Skyhold and it was teeming with cooks and servants bustling about. The clatter of plates and glasses filled the air. 

“Why are we here?” asked Rainier, standing in one of the many doorways. 

“Those,” said Sera, pointing across the kitchen to a platter that featured stacks of small pies. 

“Pies,” said Fen’Asha. “We’re here for pies.” 

“I’m not leaving without the wine,” said Rainier. 

Sera was already off toward the pie platter and Fen’Asha was exchanging glares with a mustachioed cook with a glass eye. 

Rainier, meanwhile, took off in the direction of what he thought was the liquor cupboard and returned with a flask full of fruit juice and several goblets. 

“We’re here on official Inquisition business,” Sera blurted as a servant clutched her arm. She motioned for Fen’Asha, who nodded her approval. The servant seemed to apologize profusely and helped Sera carry the pies to the waiting Inquisitor. 

“Do you have any…?” asked Rainier, gesturing to the goblets. 

“More goblets?” said the servant. 

“No, stuff to put in the goblets,” said Rainier. 

“Boozy stuff,” chortled Sera, holding up her end of the pie platter. 

The servant nodded and pointed toward another cupboard. Rainier took to it and returned with an armful of dark bottles, passing them to Fen’Asha and making a second trip. They headed back into the hallway. 

“You’re going to need a hand with all that,” came a voice. It was Varric. 

The group exchanged further greetings with Varric suggesting they find a sitting room in which to avoid any trouble from the local nobility. The servant and Sera offloaded the pies and Rainier began pouring drinks. 

“Hey big head,” said Sera after she’d settled in to one of the pies and kicked her feet up on the table. “Are the Jennies shitting me or are you the bleeding Viscount of Kirkwall? 

“What?” said Fen’Asha, nearly spitting out her wine. 

Varric nodded and shrugged. “It’s true.” 

Rainier clasped him on the shoulder and raised a toast. 

“I got the harbour businesses up and running,” said the dwarf. “They voted me in after that. I get shit done.” 

“That’s tremendous,” said Fen’Asha. “No wonder you missed Satinalia…”

“Which reminds me,” said Varric, producing a small pile of papers from his pocket and sliding them to the Inquisitor. “You can do Satinalia in Kirkwall next time. This is yours. It’s an official recognition of your title, holdings, whatever. You’re a comtesse now. ”

“What? Bugger off,” said Sera, snatching the papers out of Fen’Asha’s hand. 

“I…don’t know what to say,” said the Inquisitor. 

“Say you’ll visit,” said Varric with a grin. “You have to at least see the estate.” 

“An estate?” said Sera. “Look at you all ritzy.” 

“Who’s all ritzy?” came a voice from near the door. 

“Dorian,” said Rainier, raising a glass. “And Bull.” 

The Qunari and Tevinter made the rounds and said their hellos, gathering up pies and wine and taking spots around the grand table in the sitting room. Rainier made another run for the kitchen to gather more “supplies” for the celebration. 

“I don’t mean to provide the letdown for this party, but I’ve just received notice of my father’s assassination,” said Dorian, settling into a goblet. 

Iron Bull held his hand. 

“And there was a letter, unreasonably cheery in tone and tenor,” continued Dorian. “Commending me on assuming his seat in the Magisterium.” He sighed. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Fen’Asha. 

“That means you’ll be returning to Tevinter?” asked Varric. 

Dorian nodded. “Likely.” 

“I’m going with him,” said Iron Bull, downing a mug of newly-arrived ale. 

“No,  _Amatus_ , you are not,” said Dorian. “Qunari cannot simply stroll around the Imperium, even with a magister present.” 

“Let them try something,” said Iron Bull. 

“I’d like to see that,” said Sera. “You tossing around a bunch of crummy mages by their ankles.” 

“Speaking of seeing,” said Dorian. He pulled a crystal from his pocket and passed it to Fen’Asha. 

“Nobody gets me any gifts,” pouted Sera. 

“What is this?” said Fen’Asha, turning the crystal in her palm. 

“This is a sending crystal,” said Dorian. “You can send for me at any time and can hear my velvety voice.” 

“Well, now,” said Fen’Asha. “That will certainly prove convenient.” 

“Just don’t send for him when I’m…” began Iron Bull. 

Dorian kicked him under the table, then chuckled, then broke into loud laughter. 

It was good to see everyone smiling and enjoying themselves despite the circumstances of their lives. Fen’Asha thought of Ameridan, of his companions and relationships. She thought of how he was pulled through his darkest hours with the comfort of friends, how love held him when nothing else did, how the path to goodness was always his only choice because he remembered the gladness in the world. 

She hoped she would make the same choices. 


	50. Pt.3 - Harillen: Pursuit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold on. Hold on, my brother. My sister, hold on tight. I finally got my orders. I’ll be marching through the morning, marching through the night, moving cross the borders of my secret life. Looked through the paper. Makes you want to cry. Nobody cares if the people live or die. And the dealer wants you thinking that it’s either black or white. Thank god it’s not that simple in my secret life.  
> \- “In My Secret Life” Leonard Cohen

The Anchor seared. She gripped it, tried to soothe it, tried to will it to stop stinging, tried to will herself to pay attention. 

“The Inquisition established armed presence in Fereldan,” said Arl Teagan. “Caer Bronach was seized. Is there no limit to this organization’s movements for power?” 

“Our goal was to keep Fereldan safe,” said Fen’Asha. 

“Two years ago that aid was cherished,” said Teagan. “But order has long since been restored and you remain. You claim to restore order, but to what end?” 

Fen’Asha winced as the Anchor tore through again, pain coursing up her arm. She tried to smile when Josephine looked her way. 

“Inquisitor,” came a whisper. It was an agent of Leliana’s with a request to meet the spymaster in private. Immediately. 

“You have no retort?” said Teagan from his seat. 

“I…” began Fen’Asha. “I must see to an important matter.” She nodded to Divine Victoria, who raised her eyebrows. 

“This is highly irregular,” said Teagan. “It is my turn to…” 

“Please, Arl Teagan,” said Divine Victoria. “The proceedings will continue.” 

Fen’Asha shook out the Anchor as she moved, following the spy through the back door and down a hallway. The agent opened another door. 

“Shit,” said Fen’Asha when she saw Leliana standing over the body of a dead Qunari in full armour. 

“I thought the same,” said the spymaster. She crossed her arms. 

“What…the hell is going on?” said Fen’Asha. 

“We aren’t sure,” said Leliana. “But he is a warrior, part of the  _Antaam_. Most of his wounds were inflicted by a mage. There are also the markings of a blade.” She pointed to a segment of deep gashes in the Qunari’s flesh. 

“A single Qunari here,” said Fen’Asha. “And now. Something’s not right.” 

“To say the least,” said Leliana. “I shall tell Cassa…the Divine that we require a recess to collect our affairs.” 

Fen’Asha nodded. 

“In the meantime, I suggest you prepare the others,” said Leliana. “And Inquisitor?” 

Fen’Asha raised her eyebrows. 

“It is good to see you,” said Leliana, sweeping out of the room. 

Fen’Asha examined the corpse, the great hulking lifeless body. The wounds from magic were precise, fatal. The knife wounds were sloppy, unprofessional, lazy. Blood spotted the floor and the Inquisitor’s eyes widened when she realized there was a very purposeful trail from the carcass to the floor to the doorway. 

“We’re carrying on then,” said Sera, arriving with her bow already set. 

“Looks like it,” said Fen’Asha. 

“Shit,” said Sera. “He’s an ugly one, though. Too bad he’s dead.” 

“Too bad,” said Fen’Asha. 

“Shit,” said Iron Bull, rounding the corner with Dorian. “That’s an  _Antaam_  warrior.” 

“What could he have been doing here, Bull?” asked Fen’Asha. 

“Don’t know,” said the Qunari. “Could be any number of things.  _Antaam_  are warriors, but they’re also involved with military intelligence, finding artifacts, that kind of shit. This is a  _Karasaad_.”  

Fen’Asha led the group after the trail of blood, following it through the garden, past a broken window, into another room. At one end of the space stood an eluvian, shimmering, reflecting another world in glass. The blood pooled at its base. 

“No,” said Sera. “We’re not going in there. That’s where it wants us to go.” 

“It?” asked Fen’Asha. 

“That thing,” said Sera, pointing at the mirror. “And the blood.” 

Fen’Asha touched the glass, the eluvian melting her hand inside. “We’re going,” she said. 

“Shit,” said Sera. 

Fen’Asha pulled through, followed by the others, and found herself in the Crossroads again. It was familiar, but the other eluvians were shimmering. It was brighter than it was before. 

“Stupid fucking place,” said Sera as she tumbled through. “Stupid demon worshipping elves.” 

Fen’Asha sighed, pushed through along the trail of blood. It trickled closer to another eluvian, one that looked burned out. Dark. 

“Yeah, figures,” said Sera. “Our trail goes to the busted one.” 

“It’s not broken,” said Fen’Asha, touching the glass. “It’s inactive.” 

Sera shrugged. 

“Is there a way to…fix it?” asked Dorian. 

“Blood up here too, boss,” said Iron Bull, gesturing to another walkway. 

Fen’Asha followed the trail up, around a curving path that led to another eluvian. An active one. She took it without hesitation. 

There was another Qunari on the other side, another dead one. 

“He’s part of the  _Antaam_ , too,” said Iron Bull. “Shit.” 

Fen’Asha looked around, finding herself in a ruin. There were stairs craning up toward a patch of what looked like daylight. She took them and the others followed, arriving at a balcony that overlooked a spread of wilderness. And below, another eluvian stood with a group of Qunari soldiers before it. A very still group of Qunari. 

They ventured down to the Qunari. Sera poked at one of the warriors. Nothing. He was rock solid. 

The area coursed with magic, familiar magic. The air crackled, pulsed. Fen’Asha touched the prayer stone. 

“There is powerful magic here,” said Dorian. “Recent magic. I would guess this spell was cast not even an hour ago.” He touched one of the Qunari, a statue now locked in nowhere. 

Naturally, there was another mirror. Naturally, Fen’Asha sprinted through it without care. 

“ _Atisha’all vallen, Fen’Harel elathadra_ ,” came a greeting. 

Fen’Harel? 

“ _Nuvenas mana helanin, dirth bellisa ma_ ,” continued the voice. It was a spirit. 

She crossed her arms, tried to determine its direction, tried to sort the words. She paused, wanted to speak, wanted to urge it onward. 

Sera was glaring at her. 

“ _Andaran atish’an, setharan_ ,” ventured Fen’Asha. 

Sera drew her bow. “What…are you talking to?” 

“I don’t know,” said Fen’Asha. 

Whatever presence lingered was there no longer, dissipating into the oblivion of the space. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking to?” said Sera. 

Fen’Asha shook her head, grimaced. She led the group onward and upward to a mosaic that reminded her of the Temple of Mythal. She touched it and her Anchor surged in response, power tearing through her palm once more. And there were memories, distant and out-of-focus. 

“This was a refuge for…slaves,” she sputtered. “Elven slaves.” She tried to shake the pain from her palm. 

“How…?” began Dorian. 

“This whole valley was a sanctuary,” Fen’Asha continued. “Created by…the Dread Wolf.” 

“Oh bugger,” said Sera. “Not Fun’Harel.” 

“I’m afraid so,” said Fen’Asha. She moved on, discovering more Qunari, more blood, more mystery. Another mosaic loomed, adorned with an extravagant depiction of the Wolf –  _her_  Wolf – and his followers. She touched it. Memories surged once more. 

“He’s not a god,” said Fen’Asha. “He’s not…he doesn’t want unwilling followers…” 

“Good to know, boss,” said Iron Bull. He twirled his finger around his temple. 

The path continued, blood-dotted, to a room surrounded by more murals, more Fen’Harel, more wolves. She noted the one of the Dread Wolf removing  _vallaslin_. It was a perfect portrayal, the same wolf mask, the same dark fur, the same red eyes. The same.

She held her prayer stone again, heart aching.

Sera paused in front of the depiction and glanced at Fen’Asha before whispering something to Dorian. 

“There’s a switch,” said Iron Bull from his spot near a statue. “I’m going to push the butt…” 

“Don’t,” shouted Dorian. 

But it was too late. The Qunari pushed it and the wolf slid aside, revealing a staircase that led below. He grinned like it was an intentional discovery. 

“Staircase to nowhere,” said Dorian. “Sounds like a wonderful idea.” 

“This is weird,” said Sera. “Too weird. Like that time I ate so many apples my poop turned…” 

“Sera,” said Fen’Asha. “Come on.” She gestured down the stairs. 

Sera grumbled and took the steps one by one. 

Iron Bull was poring through what seemed to be an armour storeroom. He was positively in his element, pulling swords and axes out of chest after chest after chest. Before he could say anything about his find, a giant blade slashed toward him from the shadows. 

Dorian shouted something and blasted at the shadows, firing off reams of flame. Fen’Asha followed suit and the air was filled with great wailing and shouts. 

Iron Bull cursed as a group of three Qunari soldiers tumbled out of the dim. Dead. Scorched. 

“Maker’s balls,” said Sera. 

“My people do not attack without orders,” Iron Bull said, inspecting the corpses. 

“What the hell is going on?” asked Dorian. He reached for one of the bodies, picked up a piece of crumbled paper. 

“Always a note on the bodies, eh?” said Sera, rolling her eyes. 

“It says something about an unknown intruder coming through the mirror,” Dorian said. “Turning the spirits against them…fleeing.” 

“Of course it does,” scoffed Sera. “It’s never a bleeding recipe for nug stew, is it?” 

“Who would have that kind of power?” mused Dorian. 

“Something tells me we’re going to have an answer to that sooner rather than later,” said Iron Bull. 

“We should tell the others,” said Dorian. 

Fen’Asha looked ahead but nodded. “You’re right,” she said, leading the group back to the Winter Palace. 

 

“One dead Qunari is bad enough,” sighed Cullen, leaning against the wall. “Now we have more. And they’re angry.” 

Fen’Asha nodded, pouring him a glass of wine. 

“This is so strange,” said Josephine from her spot on Fen’Asha’s luggage. “Why would the Qunari attack?” 

“And why are they using eluvians?” wondered Leliana. 

“The Exalted Council is in a delicate state,” said Josephine. “We must ensure this doesn’t disrupt the negotiations.” 

“Considering that I walked out of the hearing, I think that’s a lost cause,” said Fen’Asha. 

“I will smooth things over for the time being,” said Josephine. 

Fen’Asha sighed. Her head hurt, the Anchor hurt. She wanted rest, comfort. 

“The only advantage we have is that there is so much division,” continued Josephine. “But if Orlais and Fereldan unite against us and determine their concerns are unheeded by the Inquisition, Divine Victoria will be put in a very difficult position. We could lose everything.” 

“The Qunari are an immediate threat,” said Fen’Asha, rubbing her hand. 

“The Inquisitor is correct,” said Leliana. “We must attend to this.” 

Josephine nodded. 

“For now, perhaps we should all get some rest,” said Cullen. 

The group nodded in agreement and departed from Fen’Asha’s quarters, leaving the Inquisitor alone with her prayer stone. She clutched it and hoped, wanting to melt into dreams again, wanting to see him, wanting to touch him, wanting to ask him about…everything. 

She had called for him in recent slumber, searched for him at his Altar. She wondered where he was, what worlds the Dread Wolf padded through. 

She stood with a sigh, unfastening her garments and preparing for sleep. She knew he had to acknowledge her need. He had to say something, had to be somewhere. 

Her door opened with a rasp and Fen’Asha did her best to conceal herself with her hands. 

“Maker’s tits,” said Sera, closing the door quickly behind her. 

The Inquisitor gasped. “Can you knock?” 

“No,” said Sera, shaking her head. “Looks like my drawing was, how you say, economically correct.” 

“I think you mean anatomically correct,” said Fen’Asha. 

“Whatever,” said Sera, shrugging. 

“Can’t sleep?” asked Fen’Asha, sitting on the bed and pulling her robe on. 

“Didn’t try,” said Sera. “Everyone’s too weird.” 

“That’s a given,” said Fen’Asha. 

“Yeah,” said Sera. “But the servants, too.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“They aren’t complaining,” said Sera. 

“Is that…weird?” asked Fen’Asha. 

“Yeah,” said Sera. “It’s like they’re happy to serve this rich shithole. Like they’re tooting butlers in some kind of fairy tale make-believe with singing teacups, all whistly while they work. Weird.” 

“Could they be spies?” asked Fen’Asha. 

“Why would they be spies?” asked Sera, cocking her head. 

“For the Qunari,” shrugged Fen’Asha. She rubbed her hand again. Damn Anchor. 

“Well,” said Sera, sitting down. “It’s not just here, you know. Like, it’s all over. Don’t see many elfy people asking for favours from the Jennies.” 

“You think something’s happening, then?” 

“Duh,” said Sera, rubbing her temples. “Sometimes you’re a bit thick, right? Like you’re going through options of what to say and come to the point a bit late.” 

Fen’Asha scoffed. “It’s been a long day, Sera.” 

“And that’s hurting,” said Sera, pointing at the Anchor. 

Fen’Asha nodded. 

“I wish it wasn’t,” said Sera. “For all the good that does.” 

“Thank you, Sera,” said Fen’Asha. 

“You going to bed, then?” 

Fen’Asha nodded. “Rest should help,” she said. 

“Bugger,” frowned Sera. “I’m going swimming with  _Thom Rainier_.” 

“Swimming?” 

“Yeah,” said Sera. “You go in the water, flap around, splash things. Supposed to be fun.” 

“I didn’t know you could swim at the Winter Palace,” said Fen’Asha. 

Sera shrugged. “You could fill a library with what you don’t know,” she teased. She stood up, moved for the door. 

“Goodnight, Sera,” said Fen’Asha, rubbing her palm again. 

“Goodnight, Inquisitits,” said Sera, grinning. “Take care of that hand.” 

“I will.” 

“Keep it warm, in a safe place, like a safe wet place,” said Sera, the door inching closed behind her. “Like your…” 

“Goodnight, Sera,” said Fen’Asha. 

The door closed, Sera’s boisterous mirth palpable behind it. 

The Inquisitor slipped into dreams, lonely dreams. She was at the shrine again, the altar. His altar. The humid memories of the springs, of her clothes draping through the water, of the walking up stairs. She breathed heavily, hope chasing hope. 

But he didn’t come. 

She tried not to worry, tried not to feel the anger rising in her veins. Her muscles tensed like they would in a nightmare, like they would in a dream where she was falling and falling into nothing. And the Anchor burned even in sleep, tearing at her like the orb tore the sky. 

Fen’Harel loved her. So he said. But what did that even mean? Was it another meaningless shred of words, a concoction to make her feel better like Solas’ sleeping aide? She was tired of it. Tired of being told what others thought she wanted to hear. Tired of being taken for a fool. 


	51. Pt.3 - Harillen: Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Human beings in a mob. What’s a mob to a king? What’s a king to a god? What’s a god to a non-believer who don’t believe in anything? We make it out alive. All right, all right, no church in the wild. I live by you, desire. I stand by you, walk through the fire. Your love is my scripture. Let me into your encryption.  
> \- “No Church In The Wild” Jay-Z and Kanye West

Fen’Asha woke disappointed from another restless, hollow sleep. 

She was called to breakfast, where her advisers fussed over what was to happen next. She was tired, holding her head up took great effort. She watched Varric collect elaborate sausages, watched him stack them into what looked like a little house, watched him cover the little house in some kind of sticky breakfast accompaniment, watched him devour his little house. 

“Did some looking around last night,” Thom Rainier was saying. 

“Yeah,” said Varric. “None of this makes any sense.” 

“We’re going back through the eluvian,” said Fen’Asha, rubbing her palm. 

“That thing’s been bothering you?” asked Varric. 

Fen’Asha nodded. “Since the shrine.” 

“It’s probably connected somehow,” the dwarf said absently. 

“That makes me feel a lot better,” said Fen’Asha rubbing her temple.. 

Rainier grunted, pulled a mug up to his face. “Where are we going?” he asked. 

“Wherever the mirror leads us,” said Fen’Asha.

Evidently, the mirror had designs on leading the trio through to the Deep Roads. 

“You have got to be kidding me,” said Varric. “I’ll never understand these things.” He looked back to the mirror they’d just shunted through, tapped on it with Bianca. 

“Come on,” said Fen’Asha, leading them down a spiraling staircase that seemed to burrow to the middle of Thedas. The ground glowered at them. 

The path eventually gave way to a sprawling cave, one tempered with a grinding din. Fen’Asha followed the noise, turned a corner. 

“Shit,” said Varric, watching an expansive mining operation unfold before his very eyes. 

There were countless shady figures working the rock, blasting away without precision, tearing at the stone, ripping up chunks of earth for whatever their purposes had in mind. 

Fen’Asha moved them forward, trying to stay to the shadows. Her Anchor had other ideas, tearing and ripping once more with shards of emerald fire. 

Rainier exchanged a look with Varric. “We can turn back,” he said. 

Fen’Asha shook her head. “I’m fine,” she said through gritted teeth. 

Varric shrugged, watching the miners. “They’re using explosives,” he said. “That’s…not smart.” 

Fen’Asha clung to the rocks on the side wall, peering up at the massive mechanisms and walkways that dotted the operation. There was fire and rock and smoke everywhere. They circled the edge until they found a small campsite, complete with a glowing fire set in the middle. 

And there was a guard. Of course there was a guard. 

Fen’Asha put her hand to her staff.

He put his finger to his lips, hoping to keep them quiet. 

For some reason, she agreed.

He gestured for them, urging them closer. “You’re the Inquisitor,” he whispered, pointing at her hand. 

She nodded. 

“There’s no time,” he said. “What the… _Viddasala_  is doing is insane. She was sent to study magic, stop it at all costs. This hideous…” He looked down. 

“Who are you?” asked Fen’Asha. 

“I am Jerran,” said the guard. “I was once a Templar, from Kirkwall. 

“You don’t say,” buzzed Varric. 

“I don’t care if you do serve Fen’Harel,” said the guard. “I can’t follow her anymore.” 

Fen’Asha stiffened. “You think I serve Fen’Harel?” 

Jerran shrugged. “It’s what we were told,” he said. “His agents have been causing trouble all over. I assumed the Inquisition was doing his dirty work, too.” 

Rainier shook his head. “Only people we serve are the people,” he said. 

“So what is this place?” asked Fen’Asha, pointing to the walkways towering above. 

“It’s for lyrium,” he said. “The priestess, she gives the  _saarebas_  lyrium to make Dragon’s Breath. Supposed to destroy everything, might save the South. But this is all wrong, like Meredith was all wrong.” 

“Ah, memories,” said Varric. 

Fen’Asha began to wish Iron Bull was with her. 

“The Qunari have been using  _gaatlock_  to blow everything up, to get at the lyrium,” said Jerran. “This is their only source of the stuff and there’s a lot of it. The more we mine, the more there is.” 

“So what do we do?” asked Varric. 

“Blow it up,” said Jerran. 

“Blow it up?” asked Fen’Asha. 

“Blow it up,” repeated Jerran. 

“That sounds a little…unstable,” Varric said. 

“You can find primers at Central Supply,” said Jerran, waving to a cavern nearby. “And you can blow up the mine.” 

“You’re serious,” said Fen’Asha. 

Jerran nodded. “If you don’t, they’ll have what they need to invade. And there’ll be no stopping them.” 

Fen’Asha shook her head. “There has to be another way,” she said. 

“No. He’s right,” said Varric. “We have to blow it up.” 

Fen’Asha stared up at the mining operation, watched all the shadows carrying things this way and that, watched the explosions tear into the stone. There were several large cranes arcing around, carrying bundles of material and dropping things off. She sighed and nodded. 

“Please,” said Jerran, removing his cloak. “Take this.” He passed it to Rainier. 

Rainier nodded and understood. “I’ll be getting the primers, then,” he said. 

Fen’Asha and Varric watched and Rainier moved down the corridor, concealed in the robe. He emerged moments later with a pushcart piled with rock, nodded to the shadows and climbed to the walkways that arced above. His shadow vanished and Fen’Asha remained near the wall, holding her breath. 

After a while, Rainier emerged again without the pushcart. He pulled off the cloak when he reached the shadows. “All done,” he said. “We should be moving.” 

Fen’Asha motioned for Jerran to join them, but he refused. 

“I must remain,” he said. 

“You’re coming with us,” said Fen’Asha. 

“I am  _Viddathari_ ,” Jerran said. “I will pay penance for my betrayal one way or another.” 

Fen’Asha shook her head, held out her hand. 

“Please,” said Jerran, moving into the open. “Go.” 

Fen’Asha and the others sprang from the space and darted away from the mining operation, nearing the caverns that led back to the eluvian and to the Winter Palace. As they ran, the rumbling began. 

“Shit,” said Varric. “We just blew up the Deep Roads.” 

Fen’Asha grunted as she pushed through the eluvian. 

 

Once she’d settled, the Inquisitor sent for her advisers again and they joined her in her quarters. 

“They accused the Inquisition of serving Fen’Harel?” asked Leliana once briefed. 

Fen’Asha nodded. 

“This is a royal mess,” said Cullen. 

“Is it possible they’re connecting Corypheus’ orb to the Inquisition somehow?” asked Fen’Asha. “The orb was dedicated to Fen’Harel…” 

“But the orb was destroyed years ago,” said Leliana. “And we closed the Breach.” 

“That would put us in opposition to Fen’Harel, one would think,” said Cullen. 

“One would think,” said Fen’Asha.

“Unless they think we aimed to recover the orb for the Dread Wolf,” ventured Leliana. 

“Possible,” said Fen’Asha, crossing her arms.

There was a rapid knock at the door and Cyril de Montfort stepped in, looking frantic. 

“May we help you?” asked Josephine. 

“There has been an incident with one of your soldiers…” he began. 

Before de Montfort could squeeze out more words, Teagan Guerrin pushed past him. He pointed a finger at Fen’Asha. “You’ve overstepped,” he snarled. 

“What are you talking about?” said Fen’Asha, standing. 

“One Qunari corpse and your guards are…attacking servants,” he said. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Fen’Asha, moving closer to Teagan. 

“Please,” said Josephine, standing between Teagan and the Inquisitor. “Let us be civilized.” 

“So many secrets,” said Teagan. “So many lies. Now you know why we fear this… _Inquisition_.” 

Fen’Asha winced, the Anchor cutting into her again. “I’ll give you something to fear…” she snapped. 

“Please,” said Josephine. “Enough.” She put her hand on Teagan’s shoulder and steered him out of the room, providing numerous apologies along the way. 

Cullen stared at Fen’Asha, mouth open. 

Leliana hid a grin, while de Montfort began to pace. 

“War may already be upon us,” said Fen’Asha. “Whatever is happening is…” 

“Please, Cyril,” said Leliana. “Tell us what happened.” 

“I will show you,” said de Montfort. 

Fen’Asha, Cullen and Leliana followed the Orlesian noble down the hallway and through another until they came across a servant of the Winter Palace standing against a wall surrounded by guards. Across from the servant was an Inquisition soldier, also restrained by Palace guards. 

“What happened here?” said Leliana, gesturing to the Inquisition soldier. 

“The Orlesians tried to seize one of our soldiers,” he answered. 

“You do not have jurisdiction here,” snapped the servant. “You do not simply seize power in light of any dispute…” 

“When a noble commits a crime of fashion, we’ll cede to your jurisdiction,” replied the soldier. 

The two men seemed to snarl at each other, seemed ready to spring loose from the guards holding them to scuffle again. 

“Inquisitor,” came a voice. It was one of Leliana’s elven spies. She passed Fen’Asha a piece of paper, claiming it was found near the fracas. She frowned when she discovered it was in  _Qunlat_. 

“Someone has been smuggling  _gaatlock_  barrels into the Winter Palace,” said the elven spy when she recognized Fen’Asha’s trouble. 

The Inquisitor nodded. 

“They aim to attack,” said Leliana. “And soon.” 

“Have your guards search the Palace,” Fen’Asha said, meeting the eyes of the Orlesian servant. “Quickly.” 

“One more thing, Inquisitor,” said the spy. “The note refers to  _Viddasala_.” 

“What of her?” 

“She waits,” said the spy. “Through the mirror, by the bookcase.” 

Fen’Asha nodded. “Looks like I finally have a date,” she said. 

As she moved for the bookcase and its eluvian, Cole appeared beside her. 

She nearly jumped out of her skin. “You’re here?” she said. 

“Your hand hurts,” he said. 

“Yes, Cole,” she said. 

“A heartbeat, not yours,” he said. “Hammering the beat of a song in its final verse.” 

The pain gripped her again, sending her scrambling for the wall to lend support. She took her forearm, clenched it. It was spreading. “Shit.” 

“His friend had to die because he thought they were people,” Cole said, watching her. 

“You still sense the…Dread Wolf?” Fen’Asha whispered. 

“A slow arrow breaks in sad Wolf’s jaws,” he continued. “He doesn’t want me to follow, but I can almost feel him.” 

“How?” asked Fen’Asha, moving again. 

“The spirits have fled, flying, fluttering fast to the farthest Fade,” he said. “They’re afraid of the Veil tearing again. Guardians remained, not bound but binding. He asked them to. He knows how to speak so they listen.” 

Fen’Asha sighed. 

“I will return where I am needed,” said Cole. 

  

Fen’Asha found herself back in the Crossroads, searching for the bookcase. Dorian and Iron Bull were back in her company and she briefed the Qunari on the substance of the note. He was not amused. 

The Inquisitor breathed deep when they came upon the library, an enormous elven structure from the ancients. It sat suspended between reality and the Fade, an echo of time itself and yet entirely present. The tomes were endless, the knowledge in them unfathomable. A table sat in the middle of the shelves and shelves and shelves, an open book beckoning with light and fire. 

She touched the page. Two lovers burst into her consciousness, chastised for a lack of discretion. Bodies entwined, touched by sunlight, cared for by clouds, melting into each other. Melting like she had with Solas…with Fen’Harel. 

“What does it say?” asked Dorian. He touched the book. 

A great flash burst forward again, breaking Fen’Asha’s vision. 

“Oh,” said Dorian. “Well.” He was breathless. 

Iron Bull gazed at another open book on the table, looked to Dorian, looked to Fen’Asha. He pressed a finger to the page and cringed. “Shit.” 

“What?” 

“There’s a great battle,” said Iron Bull. “The blades, they hum.” 

“If you think that’s something,” said Dorian, clutching Bull’s giant arm. “Try this.” 

The Qunari bristled when his finger touched the page. “That’s not…possible. Is it? Can we…?” 

Dorian shrugged. “Damned if I know.” 

“You can,” blurted Fen’Asha. 

“Excuse me?” said Dorian, still pressing Iron Bull’s hand to the book. 

“I, um…” she fidgeted. 

“You’ve done this?” said Iron Bull, his skin nearly changing colour. 

“I think it’s illegal,” said Dorian with a smirk. 

“You’ve done this?” repeated Iron Bull. 

“Maybe,” said Fen’Asha. “With…someone.” 

“Oh,” said Dorian. “Say no more.” 

“Well,” said Iron Bull, rubbing his freed hand with stunning tenderness. “We’re going to have to hear that story one of these days.” 

Fen’Asha blushed, shook her head and turned her attention to the rest of the library, walking off with her hand in the pages of countless books. She could’ve lived in the space, dreamed in it, bathed in it. 

“ _Adaran, Atish’an, mirthadra elvhen_ ,” echoed a voice. 

Fen’Asha looked around. 

“I am the Archivist,” continued the voice. “I shall speak so all can understand.” A wave of orange flame settled near Fen’Asha. 

The Inquisitor nodded in greeting. 

“I am study,” said the Archivist. “I am learning thirst. The Qunari would not approach, but we learned their words well.” 

“Qunari were here?” asked Iron Bull, approaching carefully. 

“ _Viddasala_  searches this space for knowledge,” said the Archivist. 

“What were they looking for?” asked Fen’Asha. 

“They seek to know the Veil,” said the Archivist. “They have gone now.” 

“Where?” asked Fen’Asha and Iron Bull at once. 

“I will lead you,” said the Archivist, moving through a doorway and over crumbling pathways. It was a maze of sorts. 

“Where are we?” asked Fen’Asha. 

“This is  _Vir Dirthara_ ,” said the Archivist. “A connecting place for the knowledge of all. Tied to the Fade, tied to the world. But this knowledge was lost to time when the Veil was raised.” 

Fen’Asha nodded. She was walking through all of elven history, walking through all of time. 

“Many were trapped here after the Veil,” continued the Archivist. “Some lived and called to gods that would not answer. Others fell, the floor gone below. The world changed.” 

“How?” asked Fen’Asha. 

The Archivist seemed to sigh, seemed to settle in place. “I…so much was lost,” the Archivist said. “My knowledge is uneven. Seek another.” 

“Wait…” said Fen’Asha, watching the spirit fade. She tried to pursue it, but the pathway gave way to darkness. 

“Well, shit,” said Iron Bull. 

“What now?” asked Dorian. 

“We continue,” said Fen’Asha, moving forward. The Anchor stabbed at her, light ripping. 

They walked until daylight seemed to grow, illuminating a great span before them and what looked like a camp suspended in the air. Multiple passageways snaked up to it, turning this way and that with interweaving angles and twisting pieces of stone climbing higher. 

“What in the actual fuck is that?” said Iron Bull. “It looks like a Qunari encampment, but here?” 

“You seek answers,” came another voice. 

“Oh, here we go,” said Dorian. 

“You seek answers,” repeated the voice. 

“Yes,” said Fen’Asha. She tried to follow its tone, tried to find its source. 

“Follow,” said the voice. Suddenly a bright orange figure floated into view from above, from the Qunari encampment. It circled before them, then spun toward another eluvian that materialized in the distance. 

“Another mirror,” said Iron Bull. 

“Another mirror,” repeated Fen’Asha. 

“You ever get the sense this is some kind of game?” asked Dorian. 

“No, never,” scoffed Iron Bull. “Pulling us through mirror after mirror after clue after clue to discover some sort of information that goes with another piece of information so we can accomplish some kind of goal. Why would you ever think this was some sort of game?” 

Dorian chuckled. “You’re right. What was I thinking?” 

Fen’Asha walked through the next eluvian and found the orange figure waiting on the other side in what looked to be another part of the impossibly large library. 

“Remarkable,” said Dorian. 

“I am the Archivist,” said the figure. 

“We’ve met,” said Iron Bull. 

“What can you tell us?” said Fen’Asha, clutching her palm. 

“You seek answers,” said the Archivist. “You wish to know of the Veil, of Fen’Harel, of what he wrought in ages past.” 

“Yes,” breathed Fen’Asha. 

“He sought to cast obstruction between the world that wakes and the world that dreams,” said the Archivist. 

“He?” asked Iron Bull. 

“Yes,” said the Archivist. 

“Fen’Harel?” asked Fen’Asha. “He created the Veil.” 

“I record time and the words of it,” said the Archivist. “He held back the sky, imprisoned the gods. Disappeared. They went silent.” 

“Who went silent?” asked Fen’Asha. 

“The Evanuris,” said the Archivist. “Those you call the Creators.” 

“Shit,” cried Fen’Asha as the Anchor grew bright and ripped at her flesh. She held it out, mouth open, eyes wide. 

“Boss,” shouted Iron Bull, reaching for her. 

She winced, shouted, slammed her other hand against a nearby wall to bolster herself for the pain that ripped her in pieces. She was anguished by time, by information, by what she now knew. And by the fucking Anchor, which was turning against her just like everything else in the world. 

“Do you need a break?” said Dorian, exchanging looks with Iron Bull. 

“No,” sighed Fen’Asha. “We must continue.” 

The library gave way to another eluvian, which glowed its welcome to the Inquisitor. 

“There are more memories,” said the Archivist. “There is more to learn.” 

“There always is,” said Fen’Asha, attempting a smile. 

“The Veil turned the empire to tatters,” said the Archivist. 

“Yes,” breathed Fen’Asha. “I suppose it did.” 

“Through there,” said the Archivist, a spectral arm gesturing at the mirror. “You will find her.” 

“I wish there was more time,” said Fen’Asha. “I am eager to learn more…” 

“Seek me in your resting state,” said the Archivist. “There are others.” 

Fen’Asha nodded, ducking through the next eluvian. 

True to the Archivist’s words, she was waiting. The  _Viddasala_  stood in the middle of another portion of the massive library. She looked up and sneered. 

“There you are,” said Iron Bull. 

“Survivor of the Breach,” said the  _Viddasala_. “Hero of the South.” 

“Bitch,” said Iron Bull. 

“It is astonishing you live,” said the  _Viddasala_. “Elven magic tears the sky, you shatter this world. And you live. It is an abomination.” 

Fen’Asha shrugged. “I do what I can.” 

The  _Viddasala_ walked toward the Inquisitor, circling a central table. “Do you really think closing the Breach solved anything?” she said. “The day the sky ripped open, the Qun decided the path ahead for a world incapable of saving itself from certain death. Your leaders would be removed, those who toil saved. It was a mercy beyond what you deserved.” 

“I’m sure we would’ve appreciated slavery,” said Fen’Asha. 

“But your fellow agent of Fen’Harel has ruined any such salvation,” said the  _Viddasala_. 

“Fellow agent?” asked Dorian. 

“Lives that would’ve been spared were lost to him,” continued the  _Viddasala_. 

“What do you mean?” asked Fen’Asha. 

“The same agent who gave Corypheus the orb,” said the  _Viddasala_ , crossing her arms. “The same who helped found your joke of an Inquisition. The same who led you to Skyhold.” 

“You’re shitting me,” said Iron Bull. 

Fen’Asha’s eyes widened and her Anchor ripped at her, but any pain was overshadowed by the swells of shock coursing through her veins. She wanted to throw herself to the ground, wanted to float into the sky, wanted to explode into a million pieces.

“Solas…” uttered Dorian. 

“You really think Solas is an agent of Fen’Harel,” said Iron Bull. 

The  _Viddasala_ laughed. “Solas pushed the dying Qunari into the Winter Palace to lure you to opposing us,” she said. “Solas obstructed peace with the South, obstructed the gentle path. Solas provoked the way of war.” 

“I…” began Fen’Asha. “I know nothing of Solas’ actions.” 

“You cannot contain the magic,” said the  _Viddasala_ , “so I almost have confidence in your ignorance. Almost.” 

“So talk to me,” said Fen’Asha. “We can negotiate.” 

The  _Viddasala_  laughed again. “It is too late for that,” she said. She reached for something behind her. 

“It’s not,” said the Inquisitor. 

The  _Viddasala_  scoffed and something emerged from her hand, producing a sharp explosion and a flood of smoke. Within mere seconds, the entire library and its towers of books was obscured by black fog. 

“Shit,” said Iron Bull.

When the smoke finally dissipated, the  _Viddasala_  was gone. 

“She has vanished,” echoed a voice. The Archivist returned. 

“No shit,” said Iron Bull. 

“She has…gone to the  _Darvaarad_ ,” said the Archivist. 

“Damn, that takes me back…” said Iron Bull.

“How do we get there?” said Fen’Asha. 

“There is an eluvian,” said the Archivist. “And words to grant passage.  _Maraas nehraa_.” 

“Thank you,” said Fen’Asha. 

“Be wary,” said the Archivist. “The Qunari have learned much.” 

Fen’Asha exhaled, finally clutching the Anchor. She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth. 

“Fucking Solas,” Iron Bull said. “You believe her, boss?” 

Fen’Asha shook her head. “It cannot be,” she said. 

Dorian nodded. “She…you’re probably right.” 

“We should return to the Palace,” said Fen’Asha. “There is much to discuss.” 


	52. Pt.3 - Harillen: Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found the one. He changed my life. But was it me that changed and he just happened to come at the right time? I'm supposed to be in love but I'm numb again. Whatever it is, it feels like it's laughing at me through the glass of a two-sided mirror. Whatever it is, it's just sitting there laughing at me. And I just wanna scream.  
> \- “What Now” Rihanna

“Okay,” said Cullen. “So basically the Qunari are an order away from destroying every noble house in the world.” 

Fen’Asha exhaled. 

“Yes,” said Leliana. “My agents confirmed the existence of gaatlock barrels in Denerim, in Val Royeaux, across the Free Marches.” 

“But we have warned the ambassadors and have done away with what we have located,” said Josephine. 

“Unfortunately,” said Leliana. “The damage may have been done to the Inquisition.” 

“What do you mean?” asked Fen’Asha. 

“The elven servant handling the barrels confessed to working for the Qunari,” Leliana said. “Sera found the manifest and it was…ours. It listed the barrels as among our supplies.” 

“So there was a spy among the spies,” said Cullen with a smirk. 

“We do not know who is working for who,” admitted Leliana. “I have no excuse worthy of such oversight. And if I did, I would spare you it.” 

“So what do we know?” asked Fen’Asha. 

“Several of our elven workers are gone,” said Leliana. “They joined us after fleeing chaos in Kirkwall, but…” 

“Could they have joined the Qunari?” asked Fen’Asha. 

“Many did,” said Cullen. “The Qun offered a better alternative to anarchy.” 

“And the Qunari turned them into spies,” said Josephine with a frown. 

Leliana nodded. “It seems any caution was all for naught,” she said. She looked down. 

Josephine put a hand on the spymaster’s shoulder. 

“Solas was pulling our strings from the outset,” said Leliana. “I should have known more, should have investigated further.” She looked away. 

“Solas helped us…” Fen’Asha said. 

“Solas tricked us,” said Cullen. 

“Corypheus wouldn’t have had the orb without him,” said Josephine. “He deceived us, threatened those we protect. Your personal feelings aside…” 

Fen’Asha looked down. “I understand, but…” 

“There are costs,” said Josephine. “Our reputation is in tatters. We are presumed militaristic and compromised. They plot our destruction.” 

“Maybe they’re right,” mused Leliana, looking out the window. 

“They’re…” began Fen’Asha before the pain tore at her again, worse than before. She doubled over, gripping her arm. 

“Inquisitor,” shouted Josephine, reaching for her. 

Cullen held Fen’Asha as she cradled her arm on the bed, nearly wept from the torture of its insistence. 

“I don’t know what to do,” said Josephine. She started to pace. 

“Nobody does,” said Fen’Asha through gritted teeth. “But we must…continue…” 

“I must inform the Exalted Council of recent events,” said Josephine after a while. She watched Fen’Asha squirm in Cullen’s arms. 

“I must…continue,” seethed the Inquisitor. “Until…the end.” 

“We’ll station guards at the eluvian to head off any Qunari threat,” said Cullen as he helped Fen’Asha stand. 

“Good,” said the Inquisitor. 

“Maker watch over you,” said Leliana, watching Fen’Asha leave. 

 

Fen’Asha stormed through the hallway, insistent and angry and chaotic. A ball of fire. A torrent of rain. 

Solas served Fen’Harel, of all things… 

What could have been? What could have happened between them? They shared so much, yet understood so little of each other. The path led to treachery, not love or compassion or consideration or confidence. Nothing remained but darkness, opportunity disappearing to the ends of Thedas. 

And Fen’Harel, the one Solas was said to serve. Where was he? Where was his infinite stupid wisdom, his stories by the trees, his lurking by the altar? Why had he left her alone? 

She tore around a corner. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” came a voice. It was Varric. 

He hadn’t left her alone. 

“Your hand,” said Cole, appearing beside the dwarf. “It tears you apart.” 

Fen’Asha nodded. “It does, Cole.” 

“You’re not going alone,” came another voice. It was Divine Victoria, without the hat. Without the robes. It was Cassandra. 

“Not on your life,” said Sera, nudging Fen’Asha in the side. 

“You certainly aren’t going anywhere without me, darling,” said Vivienne, appearing in a doorway. 

“You have my sword,” said Rainier. 

“And my axe,” said Iron Bull. 

Dorian winced. “Really?” 

“Let’s get this shit started?” said Iron Bull, slinging his huge arm around Dorian. 

“Better,” said Dorian. 

 

The eluvian was where the Archivist said it was and the way was granted with revelation of the words. It gathered its life and the Inquisition passed through it. 

Darkness lay on the other side, the night sky blanketing above them. They ventured forward, down a stone pathway that led to a passageway with a door that was strangely open. They entered one by one and found themselves inside what appeared to be a storage room filled to the brim with broken mirrors and shattered artifacts from all across Thedas. 

“ _Darvaarad_ ,” said Iron Bull. 

“It’s an eluvian graveyard,” said Dorian. 

“They’ve been studying them,” said Fen’Asha. 

“Interesting hobby for Qunari,” mused Rainier. 

“And red lyrium,” said Varric with a whistle. He gestured to shards of the stuff towering through one of the corners and tearing through the wall. 

“Looks like they have some kind of cataloguing system,” said Vivienne, holding up a stack of papers. 

“But what are they doing with all this shit?” asked Varric. 

“They are collecting it, it seems,” said Vivienne. “They made the keystone, for one.” 

Cassandra gasped and held up a book. “Maker,” she exclaimed. 

“What is it?” asked Fen’Asha. 

“They have  _Sword and Shields_ ,” said Cassandra. 

Fen’Asha cocked her head. 

“Of course they do,” said Varric. “Perhaps they’d like an autographed copy.” He pulled the book out of Cassandra’s hands and scribbled something in it, snapping it shut. 

Cassandra peeked inside the front cover and grimaced. “You shouldn’t tell people to do that with a druffalo,” she whispered. 

Fen’Asha began to chuckle but winced as the Anchor began its ugly business again, ripping and tearing through her arm. The pain was spreading again, making its way nearly up to her elbow. She steadied herself against a crate and closed her eyes. 

Sera was at her side. “Please stop hurting,” she said. 

“I’m okay,” winced Fen’Asha. She stood upright again. 

The Inquisition pushed through the storage room, winding their way through what had to be the underbelly of  _Darvaarad_  and toward an open space that gave way to several Qunari soldiers. 

“Shit,” said Iron Bull. 

“Inquisition,” thundered a voice. It was the  _Viddasala_  and she stood in the middle of the room. 

“There you are,” huffed Fen’Asha, the Anchor still sizzling and shredding her flesh. 

“That’s far enough,” said the  _Viddasala_. 

“I’ll decide that,” said Fen’Asha. 

The  _Viddasala_  shouted a command and burst from her spot in the middle, racing away from the Inquisition and up a set of stairs. 

“Follow her,” shouted Iron Bull as the Qunari soldiers sprang into action. 

Fen’Asha shouted and the Anchor exploded in a torrent of pain and electricity, the energy climbing and coiling through the room. The space was flooded in green, shards of fire springing out of nowhere and everywhere all at once. When she was forced to the ground by the impact, the lightning cleared. 

“Well,” said Dorian. 

Every single Qunari soldier lay scorched and dead across the floor of the room ahead, a wasteland of weapons and blood covering the ground. 

Fen’Asha winced, grimaced. The opportunity was before her, but the Anchor was punishing. It carved into her like a sword, pitilessly slashing at tendons and bones and muscle. She tried to stand and her knees buckled. 

Rainier steadied her. 

“Through there,” said Fen’Asha, breathing hard. She pointed to the stairs, the stairs the  _Viddasala_  had taken. 

They climbed the stairs, which curved from darkness to a larger room rimmed with innumerable red torches and a yawning entryway that gave way to a passage. They rushed across the passage in time to see the  _Viddasala_  facing yet another eluvian. 

Sera sighed noisily as the  _Viddasala_  walked through the mirror. 

Fen’Asha raced forward, arm nearly tugging her behind, nearly tearing from her shoulder. She cursed as she burst through the mirror. 

She found herself in a broad courtyard, one rimmed with thick patches of grass and dotted with Qunari warriors. She covered herself for a moment before discovering that the warriors were still, frozen somehow. She tapped the closest of the  _Antaam_. It was stone. 

She faced the mirror, hoping for her companions. They did not follow. She pressed her hand against the eluvian, finding it solid. 

And the Anchor burned again, causing her to cry out before dropping to her knees. She closed her eyes, wincing before the pain finally softened. Her arm was numb and she stood, looking around again and moving through the forest of rock  _Antaam_. 

A voice echoed through her surroundings, through the rock and the grass and the roaring waterfall that loomed off over the side of a cliff. A voice she knew. 

“ _Ebasit kata,_ ” it said. “ _Itwa-ost_.” 

Was she in a dream? Had she fallen unconscious from the pain? Had the Anchor wrenched her from the world finally? She looked back to the mirror, sure she’d passed through. 

“ _Maraas kata_ ,” came another voice. It was the  _Viddasala_. 

The Inquisitor followed the sound, followed them up a stairway. She took it, stone step by stone step. Rising. 

“Your forces have failed,” said the first voice. The one from the dreams and the one she knew. “Leave.”

It couldn’t be… 

There was a groan and Fen’Asha peered over the top step, spotting the  _Viddasala_  frozen in stone, a spear raised over her shoulder. A spear raised toward a man with his back to her. The man with the voice? 

The man in the wolf pelt. 

How? 

The man in the wolf pelt strolled toward a massive eluvian, walked with purpose. 

She moved quickly, walking across the grass, walking past the  _Viddasala_ ’s stationary form, walking toward the eluvian, the wolf pelt, the man…the voice… 

It couldn’t be. 

“Fen’Harel…”

She exhaled, a prayer.

He stopped. 

The Anchor thrummed back to life again, back to ripping Fen’Asha apart. She shouted, fell back to her knees behind him. She cradled her arm, cradled the damn mark and its electricity. 

And he turned, faced her, walked toward her. The man in the wolf pelt. The… 

She called him Fen’Harel. 

He held out an arm. The black fur he wore hung over him. It was a lovely wolf pelt, familiar as it clung over the rest of his armour. Sophisticated armour, tight armour clinging to his lithe form. His familiar form. 

She’d seen it before. She focused on his abdomen, letting her eyes adjust, letting the tears from her pain clear, letting the light back in. 

And she looked up, blinking. Her eyes betrayed her as she saw his face, saw him standing before her, saw him reaching down to touch her. 

Her heart broke when she said his name. 


	53. Pt.3 - Harillen: Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I look into your eyes I can see a love restrained. But darling when I hold you, don't you know I feel the same? Nothing lasts forever and we both know hearts can change. And it's hard to hold a candle in the cold November rain. We've been through this such a long, long time, just trying to kill the pain. But lovers always come and lovers always go and no one's really sure who's letting go today. Walking away.  
> \- “November Rain” Guns ‘N Roses

“Solas,” she said again. Saying his name made it real, made him real. He was…

“This should give us more time,” he said with a gentle smile. He held her arm.

The pain faded and she stood, shaky knees and stinging feet.

“I suppose you have questions,” said Solas.

She inhaled, held her arm, took tentative steps. “You are…”

“I was Solas first,” he said. “Fen’Harel came later. It was meant to serve as an insult, a construct from the Evanuris. But I wore it with honour. The Dread Wolf inspired hope and fear, not unlike the Inquisitor.”

She shook her head.

“There is an unmistakable irony, is there not?” he said.

“Irony?” she said.

“What is the old Dalish curse?” he mused. “May the Dread Wolf take you?”

She scoffed. “You’re joking.”

“I did not lay with you under false pretenses,” he said.

“You lied to me,” she said. “Made a fool of me. I loved you. I _love_ you, as Solas and Fen’Harel.” The words stuck, felt funny coursing from her mouth, felt strange in the air.

“ _Ir abelas, Vhenan_ ,” he said.

“ _Tel’alelas, Vhenas_ ,” she said. “Tell the truth. Now.”

“I freed slaves, removed their _vallaslin_ , granted them protection from their masters… When the Evanuris killed Mythal…” he sighed. “She was the voice of reason, the voice of compassion. I fought back, banished those you call the Creators to the Fade and erected the Veil to hold them in.”

Fen’Asha touched her face. “Did you think of the consequences?”

“They would have destroyed the world,” Solas said.

“You destroyed the world,” replied Fen’Asha.

Solas looked down, “I know.”

She shook her head.

“The Veil took everything from the elves,” he said. “It took their immortality, crumbled their cities.”

She stepped toward him, tentatively meeting his gaze.

“So now I walk the _Din’Anshiral_ ,” he said. “I will restore what has been lost to my foolishness.”

“How?”

“It will hold great cost to all of Thedas,” he said.

“What kind of cost?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I had tried other solutions first,” he said.

“The orb…” she muttered.

“Yes,” he said. “I did not give Corypheus the orb. I had my agents leave it where the Venatori would find it. I had hoped his foolishness would cause his destruction when he tried to open the foci. In turn, I would receive the Anchor and be able to enter the Fade freely. I would have removed the Veil, restored the world of the elves…”

The Anchor sizzled again. “This was intended for you?”

He nodded. “The Anchor will kill you,” he said. “In truth, you should not have survived this long. But you are a remarkable creature…”

She was close to him, felt his heat, wanted to touch his skin.

“Only I should have been able to wield the Anchor,” he said.

“And what’s why you were able to steady it when we met, why you watched over me?”

“Yes,” he said.

“But Corypheus…”

“He had learned much while I slumbered,” said Solas. “And I awoke too weak, too powerless to stop him. He mastered the orb, mastered immortality.”

Fen’Asha sighed.

“You showed me a different world,” he continued. “You showed me love, devotion…”

“I vowed service,” she said.

“Yes,” said Solas. “And I warned you of the dangers of blind devotion. And I had many in my service, many agents.”

“Agents?” she said.

“Spies,” he said. “Inside the walls of the Inquisition. Everywhere. I had eyes, ears.”

She winced at the thought. “How many…?”

“It is not important,” he said.

She stared down at the Anchor, felt it warming again. “You only had to ask me,” she whispered. “Whatever you need…”

He frowned, shook his head. “I would not have you see what I become.”

“Why?” she asked. “What happens next?”

“Whatever it takes,” he said. “I will remove the Veil, restore the world.”

“But that would create chaos. Destroy Thedas…”

Solas nodded. “Regardless of the cost, I will right my wrongs.”

“People will die,” Fen’Asha said, stepping away from him. “Innocent people.”

He nodded again. “Sometimes terrible choices are all that remain,” he said.

“You and Corypheus…” she gasped, throat constricting.

“We are nothing alike,” snapped Solas, moving quickly toward her. He gripped her shoulders.

“You are…” she said, blinking back tears. “You would see death, destruction.”

“He aspired to be a god,” said Solas. “I am no god.”

“You…” she said, wriggling under his grip. “We are not pawns.”

His eyes widened momentarily and he released her. “You have shown me the error of my ways on more than one occasion,” he said. “But…”

“But it’s not enough, is it?”

“You deserve better,” Solas said.

“Words,” she said. “Just words. What good are they? What good does it do to _tell_ me I deserve better when you intend such…destruction?”

“I have been locked in one hopeless battle after another,” he said. “I do not have a choice anymore.”

“You always have a choice,” she said.

“You have shown me value in this world, _Vhenan_ ,” he said.

“Stop,” she said. The Anchor tightened and she clutched her arm. Something inside was breaking.

“I would not see you suffer,” he said. He reached for her.

She pulled away. “Stop,” she repeated as the tears spilled from the corners of her eyes.

“But the mark,” he said. “It will kill you.”

She scoffed to avoid crying out in pain. “Better it than…you.”

He seemed to wince at her words, seemed to buckle. Was something pushing through?

She knelt again, in pain rather than reverence, and the emerald flames tore through her, tore through her heart, burned at her soul. She held her stone, struggled to pray and stopped herself. She had no one to pray to anymore, no one to seek but…

“I can at least save you this agony,” Solas said, his voice breaking through in pieces.

“ _Da’len_ ,” came another voice. Distant at first, then echoing closer and closer and…

“Let me help you,” said Solas. His voice was further away.

“ _Da’len_ ,” said the other voice again. Familiar. Loving. Tender.

Fen’Asha blinked tears away, clutched her hand, fought to stand. She strained and saw a glow over Solas’ shoulder, over the darkness, near the eluvian…

“ _Da’len_ ,” said the voice, said the glow.

“Mother…” Fen’Asha sighed, her breath barely carrying the sound. The pain…

“ _Lath_ …” said the glow. “ _Hamin_.”

Rest. But the pain…

“ _Elgara vallas, da'len,_ ” the glow said. It sang. “ _Melava somniar, mala taren aravas, ara ma'desen melar_.”

Time to dream…

Solas held her hand. “My love…”

“ _Tel'enfenim, da'len_ , _irassal ma ghilas_ ,” the voice sang. “ _Ma garas mir renan, ara ma'athlan vhenas_.”

Never fear…

“ _Vhenas_ ,” she breathed. The Anchor ripped through her.

“Fen’Asha,” he said. He bent toward her, knelt.

“ _Ara ma'athlan vhenas_ ,” sang the glow, sang mother.

She called him home again.

He pulled her forward, gripped her arm hard.

She cried as it stung and ripped and wrenched and exploded. She shouted as the emerald lightning enveloped her entire form. She wanted to struggle to stand, wanted to collapse again as her arm tore into nothingness.

She cried his name again, wanted to push him and shove him from her, wanted to hold him close and feel him within.

He granted the latter with a gentle kiss, watched her for a moment and rose.

“Solas…” she said. She gripped her arm, she thought.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” he said.

She pulled at her arm, she thought. “ _Ar'din nuvenin na'din_ ,” she said through gritted teeth.

He looked at her, shook his head.

She watched him as he turned his back on her, walked away from her. She watched him as he walked through the eluvian and to worlds beyond.

She thought she cradled her arm and thought she stood, weeping but standing straight. She thought she shouted when she saw Cassandra and Iron Bull fall through the other eluvian. She thought she held back her tears when Sera said her name. She thought she fell into a restful slumber when the stars came and took her far, far away. 

* * *

Fen’Asha turned in the blanket of stars, tossing and spinning around until her mother caught her hand. Her mother was beautiful as ever with her evergreen eyes, honey tresses and peaceful smile.

Her mother pointed down to the ground below, to the mountains and their snowy tips giving way to a small village tucked away somewhere in the middle.

Mother heaved her forward. Fen’Asha coiled toward it alone without control, turning toward the tops of the buildings, toward the snowcapped ridges, toward the steps.

Toward him, standing outside a cabin. She saw the sun cresting over his bald head, brushing over the folds of his ears.

“There are no perceptible variations. Closing the rifts in our travels has had no ill effect,” he said, looking up at her. “Rest well tonight. Closing the Breach will be very taxing.”

The Breach Corypheus created with the Divine Justinia V as the sacrifice. The Breach that was killing her.

The tear in the Veil, the Veil he’d erected. Demons poured through it into Thedas, into a land already torn by war and division, into a land unsuspecting and full of innocence as well as guilt. A land of farms and farmers, humans and Qunari, mages and Chantry.

She closed her eyes and the tears tumbled down, tumbled to the ground outside his cabin.

Her tears burned the ground, burned Haven. She looked up and all was fire, storming and streaming from the cliffs above like red rain.

Haven was destroyed in mere minutes, a thunder of agony pouring from beyond.

 _And with it, everything had changed_.

She breathed in, breathed in a familiar aroma that threatened to calm her. Elfroot soap. His elfroot soap.

Her eyes flickered open and he was there, examining the mark. Always the damn mark. Turning it in his hand. Wishing it was on his hand, carved into his flesh. Wishing it was where it belonged instead of torn into the palm of this…this fool of an elf.

“A word?” he said before he led her through the caverns of snow and ice to tell her. “The humans have not raised one of our people so high for ages beyond counting,” he said.

It was supposed to be him with the Anchor. He was to be the one, the one raised so high for ages beyond counting. The one to fix it.

She reached for him from above, glowing arms and hands. He spoke to her without looking at her, without looking up into the sky where she soared. Corypheus used the orb, Corypheus opened the Breach, Corypheus survived somehow.

The orb is of _our_ people.

She wanted to spit. Now it was _our_ people. Now this Orb of Fen’Harel belonged to _us_.

Her Mother reappeared, pulled her from him, right before her fingers clasped his form. They floated over peaks, valleys, snow. They swam through clouds to the ridges and towers below, a looming fortress that seemed to arise out of nowhere.

Skyhold. _Tarasyl'an Te'las_.

Her Mother thrust her inside. She wanted be inside, wanted to see what he was working on, wanted to see what he was planning and where he wanted to take her.

“It seems you hold the key to our salvation,” his voice echoed. “You sealed it with a gesture…I felt the whole world change.”

 _A figure of speech_.

She kissed him then. She reached for him then, connected to him somehow in the world he’d taken her to. In the Fade, beyond the Veil. When he was finished, he told her to wake up.

The Fade, something she’d mastered so easily. Something she wasn’t supposed to be able to figure out.

“You have broken rules of man and nature,” he said, voice spiraling to her in the sky. “The Anchor would’ve killed a normal person.”

She closed her eyes. A normal person.

When she returned to herself, she found herself below ground. Below the stone, wandering caverns beneath. Wandering to a space with a tub, with a table, with two chairs and some light. A home for two.

She watched him bathe, watched him carry the world away with stories of the Fade and of the Korcari Wilds and the Chasind and a legend older than time. Her mother’s song wafted through, a familiar refrain.

She rose above the ground, above her ideals, above her stupid dreams.

She reached for herself, for the Anchor. It wasn’t there. She opened her mouth to shout, but there was nothing for her anymore. She wanted to reach for below, reach for the walls. But there was nothing for her anymore.

But her mother…She reached for her mother.

And she was taken back to Skyhold, back over him in his rotunda. Near his painting, near his books, near his work, near his scent.

“My friend is a spirit of wisdom,” he said. “Unlike the other spirits clamoring to enter our world through the rifts, it was dwelling quite happily in the Fade.”

Above him, she wanted to help. She wanted to help soothe his agony, the agony so clearly etched on his weary face.

 _A spirit becomes a demon when denied its original purpose_.

She watched him kill the foolish mages, watched him murder without mercy, watched him walk away. Was he planning to return to her side, planning to let her in to his frustration and his rage?

Emptiness crept in, even then as she floated above hollow skies.

And then there was something below, wasn’t there? Something she could seek, something she could hold. A small dark stone, resting at the wolf’s paws in the evening’s dim. She wanted to reach for, wanted to need it.

The altar.

Did she want the stone because he was gone? Because it would assuage her creeping, pathetic loneliness? Or was there something more?

She was over Skyhold’s mouth when he strode back through.

“You are a true friend,” he said. “You helped me. I could hardly abandon you now.”

Duty. A favour. Pity. Take your pick.

But he’d danced in the forests, in the night below the moon. She watched him turning around, watched him practice steps, watched him prepare for what was to come.

“Think of it like a battle,” he said. “I am your opponent.”

The opposition, the dutiful adversary.

Mother pulled her again, left her over the stretch of balcony outside her quarters. Skyhold rested in the cradle of the mountain, held in an embrace. She wanted to smile when she saw it.

He was below, resting against the railing.

“You show a wisdom I have not seen since my deepest journeys into ancient memories of the Fade,” he said. “You are not what I expected.”

The opposition.

And then she moved, moved to Halamshiral. The Winter Palace. The warm glow inside, the festivities and the nobles and the masks and the dancing. Always with the dancing. People turned in place, prancing before one another with cunning eyes. It was part of the Game and something was supposedly great about it, great about their damned lies.

“An elven apostate is rarely invited to speak with empresses and kings,” he said. “From the Fade, I have watched dynasties form and empires fall. It is sometimes savage, sometimes noble. Always fascinating.”

She watched him leaning against walls, holding fast to nobility as they strolled by him and mumbled. She watched him talk to servants, wave his hands to various elves as they coasted in and out of shadows. She wondered about his spies, the spies of the Wolf, the men and women working for him and working under him.

What were they watching? Were they watching when he fell into the darkened room? Were they watching the drapery streamed over the tables?

 _Dread Wolf, take me_.

And then, inside a carriage as it tumbled weakly down familiar roads. Inside the forest, the grass below staining.

And then, over the rotunda again as he painted blue squares on the bottom of Empress Celene.

“So much knowledge has been lost,” he said. “They believed that knowledge would lead them to victory. In elven, the Knight Enchanters were known as _dirth’ena ensalin_.”

And then, Redcliffe, Lake Calenhad.

“Rarely have I met such a remarkable spirit,” he said. “You are brave, compassionate, wise beyond your years, my heart.”

My heart. She wanted to cry above the little room, sensing him again, sensing what had to be indignation.

Sensing more, the fluidity of the Fade and of two forms joining in one.

“A spirit knows no world beyond what it already knows,” he said. “There are things it cannot imagine, there are limits.”

The Fade floated away as it often did, disappearing into memory.

And she was over him in the rotunda. How many times had she been here, waiting and watching over him as he painted their memories into the wall? How many times had she sought his counsel, even by drunken accident? How many times had she come to trust him, come to think of him as more than her lover and more than her friend and more than her guide?

“Why are you investigating Fen’Harel?” he asked.

 _Dread Wolf, take me_.

He was sneering now. Angry, pacing and padding around his little space, waving his little brushes. Making a point, feverish in a way but remarkable and cool. Wise and confident but unraveled. Coming undone.

Were the edges fraying then? She wondered about him, wondered about his thoughts. When he wondered about fear…

And she was over Suledin Keep, in Emprise du Lion.

He was inside a tent, waiting again and pacing again in the little space. Apologetic.

“You are remarkable,” he said. “I lose myself when you are near.”

 _Solas, take me_.

And there was the Well of Sorrows, new armour and old gods. Ground beneath, sky above, waves of water waiting for greedy fingers.

She floated above it, sensing it anew. Sensing the elves who wandered the space, who held it and were tasked to keep it safe. Abelas. Immortality. The Well and the gluttony and the contempt.

“There are other places in this world,” he said. “More to do. Your people linger still.”

Recruitment? More kindling for the flames? Would he have pressed dear Abelas into service, into another life of confinement under promise of renewal? Was he part of the plan to right past wrongs, to illuminate the dark spaces?

She felt released, felt herself back in her room under shadows near candles. There was wine, cold and hot dribbling near him.

He was lying. He was lying down.

“ _Ar lath ma_ , Fen’Asha,” he said.

She blinked and she was following him, up in Crestwood near the base of a statue. Near the base of Fen’Harel, glowing eyes and snarling teeth.

There was freedom there, with the removal of bindings. A prison in chains. Again, a lie.

“I have distracted you from your duty,” he said.

She snarled at him from above. She gripped for him, reached. Wanted to hold him in place, wanted to run for him and jump. He was setting her free and she wanted to punish him for giving her what she did not want, what she did not ask for.

Didn’t she plead for it, beg for him at that point? Wasn’t she pathetic, crawling through the earth below the statue and the light? Her mother watched over her in her despair, her whimpering, her moaning.

She cursed herself for her love, for her conflict with what she could not resist.

But she knew. She knew as her mother pulled away and the voices intruded. She knew what she had to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Fen'Asha is pissed and we only got one update to go. Whoa.  
> I know I've been horrible about elven translations, i.e. non-existent. But here's one for you.  
> Ar'din nuvenin na'din - I don't want to kill you.


	54. Pt.3 - Harillen: Divine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But still you stumble, feet give way. Outside the world seems a violent place. But you had to have him, and so you did. Some things you let go in order to live. While all around you the buildings sway, you sing it out loud, "Who made us this way?"  
> \- "Various Storms & Saints" Florence + The Machine

“The Inquisition did not cause this threat,” Josephine said as Fen’Asha stormed through the doors of the chamber.

The gallery gasped, exchanged shaken looks, muttered.

“We are aware,” said Teagan Guerrin, keeping one eye on the Inquisitor as she strode toward him.

“And now you complain?” said Josephine. “This is what passes for gratitude?”

“There are no wishes to diminish what you have done,” said Teagan with a sigh. “But again, Corypheus is years dead. The Inquisition continues still and…”

The Inquisitor settled into a seat next to Josephine and reached for a book.

Teagan was distracted by her, noticing that she was gripping the tome with her one good arm. Noticing that the other was now cut at the elbow, with the sleeve of her garment rolled and tied secure at the end.

“And?” said Josephine, trying not to stare at where Fen’Asha’s arm had been.

“You know what this is,” said Fen’Asha. She held up the book. “It is a writ from Divine Justinia, authorizing the Inquisition. We pledged to close the Breach, find those responsible, restore order. We have done so.”

Teagan shifted in his chair.

“It wasn’t an authorized treaty that saved Fereldan,” she said. She looked at Cyril.

He shifted as well.

“It wasn’t diplomacy that ended Orlais’ civil war,” she said. “It was never an organization, authorized by writ. It was people, doing what was necessary. And yes, the war has ended.”

Josephine leaned forward.

“So the time has come for our soldiers to go home,” continued Fen’Asha. “It has been an honour and we offer our limitless gratitude to those who have served the Inquisition.”

The gallery seemed to lean forward with Josephine, concealing themselves and their reactions behind fans and makeup and masks. They awaited the inevitable punchline.

“Effective immediately, the Inquisition is disbanded,” said Fen’Asha.

There it was.

The gallery burst into murmurs and expressions of shock, but it didn’t matter. Fen’Asha stood from her place, nodded at Divine Victoria, left the room where her actions were tried and assessed with remarkably superficial form. So many lives summed up with documents, papers, orders, non-orders, statements of glorious manipulation. So much shit.

By the time Fen’Asha returned to her room, she was ready to stare at it again. She looked at where the arm had been, where the Anchor once was. He had played his part, he had made this happen. He had freed her in a way, again, from the prison of his making. And he imprisoned her again, like he had a tendency to do.

But she suspected he wouldn’t free her this time.

She searched her room, looking for something to distract her thoughts from wandering to their darker corners. She caught the coming tears just in time and saw the golden glow from the corner of her eye.

Fen’Harel.

She cradled the wolf as the tears fell, landing between his ears. She closed her eyes to the rising emotion, to the mounting sting. And she felt herself drifting.

* * *

 

The altar. She was there again, in the water and the freshness and the stone.

And he was there, turning toward her unadorned. His head shining, ears set, mouth compressed.

She reached for him.

“I knew you would follow,” he said.

She opened her mouth. She wanted to say it. Words floated away.

He turned, wolf pelt pulled over his shoulders. He looked at his altar, picked up his offering, turned it around in his hand, watched it shimmer in the moonlight. It dangled helplessly, a wolf in a noose. Worship ready for execution, ready for sentencing.

“You must forget,” he said. “Find happiness elsewhere.”

 _Some bonds are meant to be broken_.

He knew then. And he tried to save her pain, didn’t he? Tried to move her along, give her his urging and his prodding to something or someone else. But what of the truth? He deprived her of the choice of her own creation, of her dignity. He decided for her.

“You will require guidance,” he said.

He decided for her.

“War breeds fear, fear breeds a desire for simplicity. Good and evil, black and white,” he said. “Legends spread from the remains of warfare, as generals became elders and kings and finally gods.”

She watched him at his altar. She had taken him places in her dreams, led him to her clan. She bit her lip at the irony, at wanting him in the confines of what was supposed to be a safe place. Of flaunting the Dalish legends of the harmful outsider. And now here he stood again, insisting he was without choice. Insisting destruction was the only way to restoration.

She trusted him then, in the moonlight. But looking down on him now, she wasn’t so sure.

She told him, but she hesitated even then.

 _There is clarity if you wish it_.

Another trick? Would he have answered her if she asked, if she had been bold and stupid enough to suggest Solas was Fen’Harel? How could she have known? She pressed her hand into her side, wanted to claw at her insides. She was confused then by reminders of Solas, wasn’t she? Why hadn’t she put the pieces together?

“Love cannot be forced,” he said. “You know this. It comes and goes without your aid. It exists, with or without your insistence.”

Love. What was it? Could love exist as battle? Was it still love?

She was sure she loved him, sure of her devotion in some form. Loving someone was a gift, her mother said. She chose to give him that gift. Chose.

It was the one choice he could not make for her.

“I have been closer than you know,” he said.

Closer. And further away. And gone.

* * *

 

Her eyes sprang open with a knock at the door.

It was Cassandra. She examined Fen’Asha’s face, saw evidence of the tears. She joined her on the bed, held her close, said she was proud of the Inquisitor. “Solas as the Dread Wolf,” she sighed. “To imagine…”

Fen’Asha shook her head, gasping with the arrival of more tears.

“It must be as though you are losing him all over again,” said Cassandra.

“No…” said Fen’Asha.

“I don’t claim to understand, it’s true,” said Cassandra. “I don’t think a soul in all of Thedas can.”

“I loved him,” said Fen’Asha though tears. “I loved them. Him…I saw him…in dreams…I was trying to… to serve…him”

Cassandra widened her eyes.

“I knew he wasn’t a god,” Fen’Asha gasped, sniffled, trying for clarity. “Losing Solas wasn’t the only cost. Losing Fen’Harel was also…”

“I see,” said Cassandra.

Fen’Asha shook her head. “You don’t…”

“When Divine Justinia died,” began Cassandra. “I questioned my belief in the Maker. What was his purpose in such chaos? How could he allow such madness?”

“Perhaps there is no Maker,” said Fen’Asha.

“Perhaps,” shrugged Cassandra. The Divine.

Fen’Asha tried to conceal her surprise and failed.

Cassandra smiled lightly. “Would that change the way we behave, the way we are in the world? Should it?”

Fen’Asha shook her head.

“You, in your own way, thought you were serving Fen’Harel,” said Cassandra.

Fen’Asha nodded.

“You thought you were doing the right thing,” said Cassandra. “Even if reality told a different tale, you held fast to your beliefs. To your faith.”

“Yes…”

“And you did so because something inspired you,” said Cassandra. “Something inspires us all, whether it moves us to faith or service or kindness. There is inspiration in Thedas, the world beyond.”

Fen’Asha nodded again.

“So what inspired you?” asked Cassandra. “What stirred your heart?”

“Fen’Harel was…a rebel,” said Fen’Asha. “He fought for freedom for the people. I never thought…”

“He fought for freedom,” said Cassandra. “And that is enough, is it not?”

Fen’Asha wiped at her tears. Looked to the Divine.

“You served in the effort of that freedom,” said Cassandra.

“Yes,” whispered Fen’Asha.

“And if you had to make another choice, would you?” asked Cassandra.

“No,” whispered Fen’Asha.

“You serve the cause of freedom, you led the Inquisition, you fought evil,” said Cassandra. “And you did these things because they were _right_ and true.”

Fen’Asha nodded.

“If there is no Maker, these things are still right and true,” said Cassandra. “And if there _is_ a Maker, perhaps you are what he made you. Perhaps loving Solas was part of your plan, part of his plan for you.”

“Perhaps…”

“Perhaps you can guide him,” said Cassandra. “And perhaps not.”

“Perhaps…”

“Andraste’s divine love and sacrifice was a gift from the Maker,” said Cassandra with a smile. “If you believe that sort of thing. And if you believe that sort of thing, the Maker wills it forward inch by inch. Solas changed that world, one way or another. And so can you.”

Fen’Asha smiled back. “I don’t know what to say,” she said.

“It is perhaps better that way,” said Cassandra. “Now come, the others are waiting.”

And they were, standing in the Winter Palace garden with ale and smiles.

Cullen grinned, passed her a mug. She attempted a grin back and it worked. She nodded as she saw Vivienne sipping from an enormous mug of her own.

Varric produced a book and handed it to Cassandra. “ _All This Shit is Weird_ ,” she said.

“That’s the title?” asked Sera.

“That’s the title,” said Cassandra.

Varric shrugged. “It’s the truth in one handy volume,” he said.

Cassandra began flipping through it.

“So what about you?” asked Varric, turning to Fen’Asha. “Should I be booking another ticket for the boat back to Kirkwall?”

“Not yet,” responded Fen’Asha. “Sera and I have business first.”

“Sera, huh?” mused Dorian.

“No, no, no,” said Sera. “It’s not like that, pervy.”

“Sure,” shrugged Dorian. “Get my hopes up.”

“Not everything’s all sexy sex sex all the time,” said Sera. “We’re opening a business.”

“A business?” asked Iron Bull.

“Yeah,” said Sera. “A business. A bakery business, like the bakers do.”

“A bakery?” said Rainier. “After all that’s happened, a bakery?”

“Makes sense,” said Varric.

“Dagna already found us a place,” said Sera. “So yeah, a bakery.”

“Well, I, for one, am pleased,” said Vivienne. “We’ve finally taken the Red Jenny off the rooftops.”

“Off the rooftops and right into your little dark heart, darling,” said Sera clinking her mug with the enchantress’.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” said Vivienne.


	55. Pt.3 - Harillen: Rebellion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You think it’s easier to put your finger on the trouble when the trouble is you. And you think it’s easier to know your own tricks. Well, it’s the hardest thing you’ll ever do. I have a will for survival, so you can hurt me and hurt me some more. I can live with denial. But you’re not my troubles anymore.  
> \- “The Troubles” U2

Fen’Asha sat with _Ghil-Dirthalen_ , or the Archivist as she preferred to call it. She was enjoying her dreams, making friends with the spirits.

Sometimes Cole would visit with her, tell her stories of hearts he swayed, pearls of pain he let loose.

But for now she sat with the Archivist, showed the spirit her new books and discoveries. The Archivist sparkled and swayed, it whispered memories of the ancient elvhen, showed her connections she wouldn’t have made before.

Fen’Asha hugged the Archivist before it left. They melded for a moment, united in their unending thirst for knowledge and the joy of discovery. Then it faded from her dream, leaving the Inquisitor to the moon peering through the tree branches. She watched, she sensed.

“I know you’re here,” she said.

She stood up, found ground beneath her, searched through the dark green trees. She walked the forest, comfortably and without hesitation. Slowly, with resolve.

He was there, in the shadows. He was watching.

She watched for his eyes and caught them in the shade. “You could talk to me,” she said.

The Wolf emerged, moonlight kissing the fur. He stood, just in view.

“What are you hiding from?” she said.

The Wolf sat on his haunches.

“You’re hiding from yourself,” she mused. “And from me.”

The Wolf cocked his head.

She walked toward him. “You’re scared, aren’t you?”

He seemed to growl, stopping short only to recede back into the dark green trees.

“That’s what I thought,” she said.

* * *

 

She woke up, stretched, found herself warm and comfortable. The sun streamed through the window, passing by the small elfroot plants that’d begun to arrive in the garden.

Fen’Asha reached for her arm, the attachment Dagna had so carefully crafted. She twisted it into her flesh, the space and the fit was perfect. And she dressed, slowly but assuredly. Practiced it.

Sera greeted her when she entered the main room, smiling like the sun. Dagna sat at a breakfast table.

“There’s word from the Red Jenny in Wycome,” said Sera. “We can find some survivors of your clan, he says.”

“And,” said Dagna. “I’ve been working on something else to go with that arm thing of yours. Another arm thing for your arm…thing.” She held up a crossbow and it glimmered.

“Oh look at you,” said Sera, whistling. “All weapons and arrows now.”

Fen’Asha nodded, grinned.

“If you think you’ll ever be as good as me,” said Sera, “you’re out of your marbles.”

“And Thom will be joining us,” said Dagna.

“So he can finally see the bakery,” said Fen’Asha, nodding and touching her chin knowingly.

“Yes,” said Sera. “The bakery.”

“The bakery,” said Dagna.

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” said Sera. “I think. Did I say that right?”

Fen’Asha nodded.

“What don’t I know?” came a voice from the doorway. Rainier poked his beard in.

“You could fill a toilet library with what you don’t know,” said Sera. She threw a piece of toast at Rainier and it plopped off the front of his coat, dropping helplessly to the floor.

“A toilet library, Sera?” he said, brushing away crumbs.

“Yes,” said Sera. “Problem?”

Rainier shook his head.

“Good,” she said.

“How are you doing?” said Rainier, eyes turning to Fen’Asha.

“Better,” she said. She meant it.

“She’s still being watched in her dreams, though,” said Sera.

“I thought you stopped doing that,” said Dagna, buttering a piece of sausage.

“Me?” said Sera. “You’re tits-ass nuts. I don’t do that anymore.”

Fen’Asha raised her eyebrows.

“I’m talking about Solas,” said Sera.

Rainier looked at the elves.

Fen’Asha nodded.

“Almost sounds kind of pathetic, like a lost dog looking for its owner,” Rainier said.

“Well,” said Sera. “He’s a dangerous lost dog. Needs to be put down, that one.”

“I still don’t think disbanding the Inquisition was a good idea,” said Rainier. “He does need to be stopped.”

Fen’Asha sipped her tea.

“Well,” said Rainier. “Your wagon awaits.”

The trip to the city was short and bumpy, with the road bending away from the quiet country home. The bakery, such as it was, sat just inside the confines of the city.

“Shit,” said Rainier, looking up at the sign. “It exists.”

“Told you,” said Sera.

“But do you think it’s appropriate to put ‘balls’ in the name?” asked Rainier.

Dagna chuckled.

Sera led Dagna and Rainier inside the tiny bakery. Fen’Asha lingered outside, watching as a dwarf strolled close with a hood pulled over his face. She watched as he bumped into her, apologized in a strange accent.

She smiled as she touched the piece of paper he slipped into her pocket. Fingering it, she walked through the city streets as they came alive in the morning air.

And she found the Chantry empty, ducking inside, finding the statue of Andraste, holding its hand. It tilted slightly, leading to a whooshing sound that pushed aside a nearby bookcase. Behind it was a staircase, descending down a candlelit path.

She strolled down, below the Chantry. The bookcase slid back into place.

Fen’Asha arrived at the sunken-in space, the space she’d been before.

Scout Harding nodded, standing from her business at the table. Cassandra sat in a corner, reading Varric’s latest book. She shook her head.

“Something wrong?” asked Fen’Asha, darting an eye over the collection of maps and documents on the table.

“No,” said Cassandra with a sigh.

Fen’Asha raised her eyebrows as Leliana began to snigger.

“Yes,” said Cassandra. “I expected to find myself in the book. But I did not expect to see this.”

Fen’Asha couldn’t help but laugh as Cassandra held up an open page that revealed a crude sketch of the Divine, complete with flowing black locks that coursed over her left shoulder and blossoming lipstick that made her lips appear like two fat slugs.

Leliana shook her head, while Scout Harding hid her smile.

“What…is that?” asked Fen’Asha.

“I don’t…know,” said Cassandra. “Varric says he commissioned an art piece…”

“It’s a piece alright,” murmured Leliana.

Cassandra snapped the book shut. “I will get him for this,” she said, clenching her fist.

Fen’Asha laughed again.

When things settled down, Leliana gestured to the table’s collection of maps and frowned. “My agents have found nothing,” she said. “Solas could be anywhere.”

“We have no army, no formal alliances,” said Cassandra.

“But we have what we need,” said Leliana, nodding to Fen’Asha who held the dark stone amulet hung from a chain, the dark stone amulet with two meticulously etched ravens.

“But we have to be careful,” said Cassandra.

“But we know,” said Leliana.

Cassandra slowly smiled.

“He knows everything about us,” said Leliana. “We must assume this.”

“Yes,” agreed Fen’Asha. “So we move on. We surprise him.”

“How?” asked Cassandra.

“We turn the page,” said Fen’Asha. “Find people he doesn’t know.”

“And people he can’t find in dreams,” nodded Harding.

“We’ll stop him,” said Fen’Asha, peering over the map and locating Tevinter with her finger. “We will try to save him from himself.”

“But the consequences of such magic…” said Cassandra eyeing the glimmering ravens.

Fen’Asha shook her head. “Even if death is the only option.”

* * *

 

The steam wafted through the air like it always did, clinging to her clothing at the shrine, obscuring the moon. She wasn’t surprised to find herself there. She was surprised she hadn’t arrived sooner.

She crossed the bridge, her prayer stone weighing down. Weighing her down.

She sighed as she thought of his name. His names.

At one time, that name was just a name. A statue that reflected confinement, freedom, pride, rebellion. He was the first when she returned to camp, the last when she sought solitude. He was in a crowd, he was in the dark.

He was her guide, led her to safety and danger, desire and disgust, truth and lies.

And she loved him. She knew it was wrong, senseless even. He had led her away from herself at times, made her forget. But he also carved the pain of memory into her name and she had the scars to prove it. She wore his chains around her neck.

He was pure and unclean. He was conflict and concord. He was loved and loathed. By her, for her.

So what now?

She stared around at the empty space. She wished it was always empty. She wished he was always there. She knew that what she wanted wasn’t what she wanted.

She knew what had to be done. No matter what her love or desire stirred her to, she knew that he threatened her and the very world she cherished.

He had promised death and destruction to right his wrong. What kind of a man does that? What kind of a god promises death, black and sickening to all? To innocents and guilty alike. To children.

He had built this world in the ashes of another and he was going to do it again. He raged and kicked at the sky because he couldn’t fix things in a way that pleased him. And when he punctured the sky, he found nothing but darkness behind the clouds that covered the beyond. He kicked again. Like Corypheus.

She shook her head.

He was like Corypheus. His aspirations and his shadows. His torment and his gifts. Always in the damn shadows, lurking and watching and waiting for his chance.

The necklace burned her and she pulled at it. Too much weight.

The moon freed itself from above as she released herself from the burden, took the necklace off and cradled it in her fingers, let the moon kiss her for once without looking up with a verdict.

Her hair shone in the moonlight, like it was meant to.

She said his name, the one he had before. She knew he was watching.

“I love you,” she said. “Somehow. For some reason. But _Vhenas_ …in another world, another time. Like you wanted.”

She dropped her gaze to the offering plate.

“You are not alone,” she said. “I will be watching.”

She dropped her prayer stone in the silver plate. A final offering.

“And I will show you what it means to rebel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. This project began exactly six months ago and now it’s officially done. Phew!  
> I’ve been a reader fanfiction for years, seen too many stories that had no endings. So I wanted mine to be completed before making my debut. Hence, how quickly I posted it.  
> Dragon Age really captured my imagination. The fantasy, the social commentary, the religions… And I thought Lavellen’s story was ripe for faith gone wrong and possibly right. And I just plain wanted a sandbox for my attempt at metaphors and motifs.  
> Thank you to everyone who read and will read Fen’Asha’s tale of love, faith and liberation. I hope I wove a story you found enjoyable. Thank you again so-so-so much for the comments, bookmarks, and kudos!  
> *blows kisses to you all* (◔₀◔ั )◞ ༘♡  
> There may be a sequel. There may not. Fen’Asha…kinda sorta jumped out of my head.  
> But the ravens…? Who knows? ╮ (. ❛ ᴗ ❛.) ╭


End file.
